


There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

by Das_verlorene_Kind



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Deer!Patrick, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone has animal traits, Happy Ending, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Producer Patrick, Puppy!Pete, Slow Burn, Sugar We're Going Down AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-05-05 17:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 75,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14623782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind
Summary: A pair of giant fucking antlers is what Pete sees first, because there’s no way those could be overlooked. Beneath them, a tiny guy, staring at them with a frown.“You’re Fall Out Boy?” The guy asks, and thankfully, at least he has a normal speaking voice. He sounds grumpy, even though nothing has even happened yet to justify it, which annoys Pete almost as much as the fact that he asks if they’re Fall Out Boy as if there were any doubts about that. Pete’s ego is only slightly insulted that people don’t immediately recognize his band.“Yes, we’re Fall Out Boy. And you’re who, a local fawn? No, wait, a deer boy ,” Pete says, with remarkable restraint in his voice. Only his raised ears betray his alertness and discomfort. He wants to growl, wants to tell the guy to avert his beady eyes, they’re freaking him out; but he’s not interested to find out what happens if those antlers meet soft, human flesh.Deer boy doesn’t take that well, long lashes fluttering as he squints his eyes in anger. He gives the worst answer possible. “I’m your producer, dipshit. And actually, I’m astag.”Pete shuts his mouth at that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are, folks! Finally, I present you my deertrick AU! I've been teasing this for a while, now it's here for real. 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for beta reading and encouraging, and thanks to all my other lovely friends who listened to me babble about this and encouraged me as well!~
> 
> As always, all artwork done by me!

 

 

 

 

 

When Pete first met Gabe, it was in some club where Arma had just played. Pete recalls being drunk, very drunk, to forget about the fact that his only band that almost got to success was about to blow up. Pete needed something else, something new, but all he had was more vodka shots and then, he had a hand on his shoulder.

 

Gabe had looked terribly out of place in a neon sweater, but with his impressive height and Doberman ears perked up, no one would’ve dared to give him shit.

 

“You’re that Wentz guy,” he said without introduction, a statement rather than a question.

“And you? A fan?” Pete laughed and downed his drink.

Gabe laughed too, though it looked much less friendly than Pete expected. “I’m Gabe, and you fucking wish, Wentz.”

 

“Got a problem with me?” Pete said in reply, because if anything, Pete wasn’t good at avoiding a fight.

 

“You and your band fucking suck, Wentz. You’re missing something important, and that thing is me.” Gabe leaned over the bar, with the last hint of laughter sparkling in his eyes. A new drink had been pressed into Pete’s hand, and Gabe held up his own.

 

“Real son of a bitch, aren’t you,” Pete growled in irritation, expecting the guy to empty his beer into his face, or maybe get that fight he’d been itching for.

Instead, he had gotten another smile from Gabe, barring his canine teeth and brining mischief into his eyes.  

“You and me both,” Gabe answered with another loud laugh. “I say we toast to that, right?”

 

A couple of beers later, Gabe had become his friend.

 

A couple of weeks later, and Gabe was in Pete’s garage, together with Andy and Joe, “the only part of Arma that didn’t suck”, as Gabe liked to phrase it.

 

A couple of months later, and Fall Out Boy was starting to take Chicago by storm.

 

And Pete knew the rest of the world would follow it one day.

 

Gabe balances out Pete pretty well – he easily keeps up with Pete’s antics, but unlike Pete, always has enough common sense to stop one step before everything goes to shit. Gabe’s the first to support his ideas, but he’ll drag Pete away from any shitty situation with no questions and no hesitation. If Pete is too heavy on the angst, Gabe is the one who knows when to sit and talk, or when to pick him up and haul him off to the next best shitty local gig, a night of re-watching the Terminator movies, or whatever else Pete needs to get out of a slump.

Plus, it doesn’t hurt that Gabe is seriously fucking talented, and has a voice that sounds a thousand times better than anything Pete ever bawled into a microphone.

 

Four guys crammed into one apartment, then one van, then a tiny studio.

 

Fall Out Boy on various stages, soon all over the country, and back in a slightly bigger studio for their first official album.

 

Photo shoots and interviews, nothing too glamorous, but it sure feels fucking fancy. They’re doing music videos, real ones that air on MTV, and their songs are playing on radio stations. The crowds at their concerts grow bigger, wilder, screaming and singing their songs with Gabe.

 

People are fucking loving them.

 

 

After the unexpected success of Fall Out Boy’s first album, the label is even more eager to go with the hype, and get a second album out as soon as possible. The band is more than fine with it – Pete has enough notebooks filled with lyrics to last for the next three albums, and he knows that Gabe does too; with Joe and Andy at their side, they can bang out some good music in no time. They’re buzzing with energy, overflowing and willing to seize the opportunity, knowing they finally almost made it.

This time, the band is promised more of everything – more money, more tour dates, a higher production value for the music videos, _everything_. It all comes with the small cost of agreeing with the producer chosen by the label, a price no one finds too high to pay.

Money and fame and potentially headlining a big tour, oh, they’re gonna be huge stars, Pete is sure. They spend the evening in their tiny apartment, toasting with beer or, in Andy’s case, cruelty-free vegan lemonade to a glorious future. Everything seems possible.

And once the label exec lets them know the studio’s choice for a producer, Pete _knows_ they will be huge stars.

 

Patrick Stump, up and coming star producer.

 

His _name_ is on everything. Patrick Stump does everything from children’s movie soundtracks to rap tracks, he’s left his traces on nearly every genre with stunning success. No matter if it’s that annoying Coca Cola jingle that got stuck in Pete’s head for days or Travie McCoy’s latest album that he has played on repeat in his car for weeks, everything seems to have Mr. Stump’s fingerprints on it. The guy simply must be a multi-talented genius.

Apparently, he’s also made Island Records enough money to be their first and only choice for Fall Out Boy’s second album. It’s not up for discussion, but who would want to object this chance in the first place? They’re getting a star producer with tons of talent, a studio Chicago, and the glamorous glimmer on the horizon of being almost there, so, _so_ close to fame.

Fame – that makes Pete wonder. He knows he’s heard the name Patrick Stump a dozen times, but no one in the band can put a face to him. Not that that’s too surprising, who would know what a _producer_ looks like? But as it turns out, Mr. Stump is just very big on keeping everything aside from his music a secret.

To Pete’s surprise, despite his almost obsessive research (that some may call the first step of stalking) as soon as the studio reveals the news to the band, there’s nothing to be found except Patrick Stump’s name mentioned all over last years’ success stories. No pictures, no tabloid fame, none of the awards he won were accepted publicly. No gossip, no interviews, no nothing. His _name_ is out there and so is plenty of his work, but the guy himself remains hidden, shrouded in mystery.

That only piques Pete’s interest even further. How would someone turn down the opportunity of fame and fans? But what matters more is that _they_ , Fall Out Boy, get to work with him, _they_ get to see the mysterious man, _they_ are invited into his fortress in Chicago to go make some killer music. Pete can’t fucking wait.

 

But before the band even gets close to him, they have to sit through a boring meeting with the suits, where a team of tight-lipped lawyers slide them a contract and deliver a long-winded explanation that boils down to _sign this, or no work with Mr. Stump_.

It’s a long, very complicated non-disclosure agreement that essentially boils down to them being forbidden from talking about _anything_ happening at the studio. Pictures aren’t allowed either. Pete scratches his head as his father, essentially the band’s lawyer as they can’t afford to actually pay someone, carefully explains it all with simpler words. Why all the trouble, no one can tell, and the legal document obviously offers no insights into the emotional aspects. Does Mr. Stump want to retain his aura of glamour and mysteriousness? Is it to keep up the picture of the recluse artist working his music magic in his enchanted castle? Pete, always the poet, tries his best to find increasingly romantic explanations.

 

“Maybe the guy is just a lunatic,” Andy says solemnly the day before their first studio time is booked. “If everyone working with him signs this shit, no wonder no one would know.”

“Not everyone can be an attention whore like Pete,” Joe says with a grin, and successfully avoids the half-hearted punch Pete throws at him.

“We’re gonna get fucking big, everyone, so quit sulking around,” Gabe had intervened, and effectively ended the argument.

 

 

The building is inconspicuous, and the interior is much less impressive than back in LA, but tasteful nonetheless.The woman greeting them is tall and slender, with a pair of panther ears matching the color of her hair and her aloof aura. Sensible, dressed for business, and she looks like someone not to be messed with despite her open and friendly smile.

“Victoria Asher,” she introduces herself, revealing fangs that rival Andy’s. “But just call me Vicky.”

Everyone nods, partially because of nervousness, partially because she doesn’t look like she’d accept anything else. Everything is so professional, nothing like that demo they recorded back before their first album got big (and that Gabe will under no circumstances allow anyone to ever mention), it’s nothing like the first album back in the small studio that smelled of old beer and unwashed musicians. Anticipation runs through Pete’s veins, he’s so, so ready. This is going to be big. _They_ are going to be big.

Pete barely listens as Vicky reminds them about all the boring legal stuff they signed, repeating that neither pictures nor anything else are allowed, whatever, all that matters is that they’re getting out of this building with a fantastic album in a few weeks. Fuck, Pete can’t wait.

When she’s done talking, Vicky gives another professional smile. “Well, good to see you, guys, and good to see you remember our policy. I’ll have to go, but someone will pick you up and get you to your studio.”

Pete’s smile falters a little. That sounds like bullshit.

“We could just go there ourselves, get started already,” Gabe offers, but Vicky waves her hand and rolls her eyes, as if that’s been a request she’s denied a hundred times already.

“Not without Mr. Stump’s supervision,” she says with a nonchalant smile, “you’ll have to earn his trust for that first. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll warm up to you quick enough.”

With that, the four of them end up standing in the hallway, alone, waiting. They aren’t even allowed in the studio yet? Off to a great start already.

 

“He’s making us wait on purpose,” Pete says with a pout, and receives nods of agreement from his bandmates. It’s kind of humiliating to stand around, waiting for a tech or sound engineer or whoever will have the decency to come get them as if they were lost children in a grocery store. They’re Fall Out Boy, dammit, but Pete rather feels like he’s six again, and made to stand in the corner like a disobedient little boy.

Finally, after what seems an eternity of aggravating waiting, someone stumbles into the hallway. Pete perks up; but when he takes a look at the person, it’s not what he has expected.

 

A pair of giant fucking antlers is what he sees first, because there’s no way those could be overlooked. Beneath them, a tiny guy, staring at them with a frown.

The guy’s eyes are unnaturally huge, pupils blown to the point where it makes his eyes look almost entirely black save for the small ring of baby-blue iris. They’re overshadowed by long, golden lashes, matching the strands of too long, slightly unkempt hair that falls into his face. Freckles are scattered over it, specks of bronze on porcelain skin. The tip of his nose is jet-black, trailing down in a line to his black upper lip. It’s in stark contrast to the otherwise ghostly pale skin, and the pink of his plush bottom lip. A hat is perched on his hair, but doesn’t hide the ridiculously huge fuzzy ears and the pair of antlers growing from his skull.

It’s an uncanny mix of human features, all too distorted by the animalistic traits.

The creepiness is not helped by the guy’s intense stare from those unsettling, large eyes. With their shiny blackness and inhuman anatomy, it’s not a pair of eyes one wants to have linger on them for too long. His lips are drawn into a frown; they’re pretty in shape, but the discrepancy between the dark upper lip and the soft rose-colored human lower lip is unsettling. And those antlers look sharp enough to stab someone. They’re fucking _weapons_ growing from his head, made to fight, intimidate, assert dominance.

 

Pete doesn’t like this one bit.

 

“You’re Fall Out Boy?” The guy asks, and thankfully, at least he has a normal speaking voice. He sounds grumpy, even though nothing has even happened yet to justify it, which annoys Pete almost as much as the fact that he asks if they’re Fall Out Boy as if there were any doubts about that. Pete’s ego is only slightly insulted that people don’t immediately recognize his band. And the guy looks like he’s one of the nerdy techs, shouldn’t those little guys know who they’re working with?!

“Yes, we’re Fall Out Boy. And you’re who, a local fawn? No, wait, a _deer boy_ ,” Pete says, with remarkable restraint in his voice. Only his raised ears betray his alertness and discomfort. He wants to growl, wants to tell the guy to avert his beady eyes, they’re freaking him out; but he’s not interested to find out what happens if those antlers meet soft, human flesh.

 

Deer boy doesn’t take that well, long lashes fluttering as he squints his eyes in anger. He gives the worst answer possible. “I’m your producer, dipshit. And actually, I’m a _stag_.”

 

Pete shuts his mouth at that.

 

Unbelievable, _this guy_ is the famous Patrick Stump, producer of so much music Pete loves, producer for his own band’s album? _This_ is the guy the band is going to entrust their career with? That little pile of terribly mismatched jeans, worn-out shirt and a pair of fucking weapons ready to stab out someone’s eyes dare they come too close? The deer boy who looks terribly out of place in this professional environment, looks like he’s lost in his very own studio?

There’s a brief moment of uncomfortable silence, before Gabe steps up. “Don’t listen to Pete here,” Gabe with a brilliant grin. “I’m Gabe Saporta, lead singer and begging for forgiveness!” He skips the handshake and just pats Mr. Stump’s shoulder. It’s little ridiculous, given that Gabe is at least one foot taller, and Mr. Stump does not look too pleased, but Gabe’s charm, his lighthearted laugh and the obvious lack of malicious intent make it hard to be mad at him.

“This is Pete,” Gabe goes on, as if Pete wasn’t perfectly capable of introducing himself. “He writes the more angsty lyrics on our album, and I guess he fumbles around on the bass. Me and him, we’re the sons of bitches!” Gabe drags Pete closer, not a difficult task given their difference in height and weight. Damnit, Gabe’s even wagging his tail, how desperate can he be?

 

Pete knows his own raised ears and stiff tail are dead giveaways that he’s not feeling too friendly. Not only was the whole introduction painfully awkward, but the deer boy still gives him the creeps. And a _deer boy_ , that’s what he is; actual _stags_ are tall, majestic, graceful and mysterious creatures of the forest. This guy is tiny, awkward, probably hasn’t seen proper sunlight in a while and he looks just plain weird.

Joe clears his throat, and steps up as well, hand outstretched. “Pleased to meet you,” he says, with all the manners and professionalism his bandmates seem to have temporarily forgotten. “Joe Trohman, guitarist of Fall Out boy. Glad we have the chance to work with you.”

Deer boy takes the outstretched hand, and his frown dissolves, although he eyes the bunny ears sticking out of Joe’s wild curls with a look that could be read as jealousy. “So am I,” he says softly, “I’ve been excited ever since I heard your first album and the demo your label sent me. I’m Patrick Stump. Producer.”

 

Pete feels only the slightest bit bad about his own behavior.

 

When Andy smiles and takes a step closer, Pete notices Patrick tensing up a little. He’s not the first one to mistake Andy’s feline features for danger. There’s something menacing in the predatory eyes of a tiger, and the smile must have revealed the teeth that are just a little too sharp to be fully human. Of course, a _deer boy_ would flinch away from someone like Andy. Mr. Stump has yet to learn that Andy has left any sort of violence way back in the past, and that those sharp teeth are reserved for exclusively chewing on vegan food.

“I’m Andy Hurley,” Andy continues, unbothered by the reaction, or rather, determined to make up for his misleading appearance with the utmost friendliness. “Drummer of Fall Out Boy. My bandmates here don’t always have the best brain-to-mouth filter, but they mean well. Pleased to work with you, Mr. Stump.”

That is so unfair to say. Pete presses his mouth into a thin line; could his bandmates stop crawling up Mr. Stump’s ass so much? He can’t be the only one disappointed by how unglamorous this all is. From the creepy look to the threatening weapons growing right out of the deer boy’s damn skull to the too long sleeves of his ratty jean jacket, this isn’t what Pete had imagined it to be at all. Ha, too long sleeves, more like guy is too small for them. Pete shouldn’t judge for that given his own height but damn, deer boy is even tinier than him. Maybe he grew those antlers out of spite and the need to overcompensate?

“Just Patrick is enough,” deer boy says with a small sigh. “Now that we’ve all introduced ourselves so nicely, how about we get to work?”

 

It takes considerable effort to not remind Patrick that _he’s_ the one who made them wait. Fuck, this is starting off all wrong.

 

Pete considers his options. He could stomp his feet and throw a tantrum, confirming his diva status in the band. He could get them all escorted out of the building, back into the label’s office to be set up with someone who isn’t a grumpy, failed forest creature.

Downside is, his band would hate him, and the label – they wouldn’t take it too well either. Tons of money is involved, there’s legal contracts and well… Realistically, Fall Out Boy would be dropped before the blink of an eye, and then that’s it, they’d be back to nothing.

So really, it’s not like Pete can do anything. He just follows his bandmates, two steps behind deer boy and just out of reach of his dangerous-looking antlers. Gabe is talking to Patrick, explains something about the song on the demo to Patrick who, to his credit, does listen with interest, but also endangers everyone around him with those antlers whenever he nods in agreement.

Andy catches up with Pete, leans in a little as he whispers something only meant for Pete’s ears. “That was a terrible first impression, Pete. You better be a fucking professional here. We’re here to do a job, and if this guy decides to drop us, Fall Out Boy may be out of work forever.”

“He insulted me too,” Pete says with a pout, knowing his reproach is ridiculous.

“Not an excuse for your behavior,” Andy answers, unfazed, and Pete curses himself for having such sensible friends who never fail to make him feel like a five-year old.

“There’s no need for him to be so uptight. It was just meant as a joke. And he _is_ a deer boy, just look at him!”

Andy shushes him, sends a worried glance to Patrick who is thankfully too preoccupied with listening to Gabe. “Don’t be stupid enough to call him that again. I expect better from you, and I’m not letting this band crash just because you’re behaving like an asshole.”

Pete grumbles something vaguely affirmative, which is enough to get Andy off of him for now.

 

Once inside the recording studio, things improve a little. Behind his soundboard, deer boy looks less lost, and he seems to gain more confidence. The tone of his voice shifts to something more professional as he, Joe and Gabe go over a chord progression, and his smile looks almost human.

Pete relaxes a little, even wags his tail when he finally gets to hold his bass and do what they’re fucking here for: Play some goddamn music.

 

They do not impress Patrick much with their first try.

Patrick mumbles something under his breath, takes a closer look at his monitor without miraculously jamming his antlers into any of the screens, cables, or walls.

“We’re doing that again,” Patrick says with a scowl, and something tells Pete he’s going to hear that a lot.

“Something about this isn’t right,” Patrick says after the third try, “maybe you could –”

Pete tunes him out, lets Joe and Gabe handle it, who seem oh so willing to change the part on a whim just because the deer boy said so. Andy throws Pete a warning look behind his kit.

It does end up sounding better with Patrick’s advice, but there’s no way Pete’s going to admit that. He’s not going to give the deer boy a compliment for simply doing his job.

 

At the end of the day, it turns out working with Patrick isn’t too bad. It’s not like he got his reputation for nothing. Pete has to give him some credit. Patrick’s committed, dedicated to doing his best, and from what Pete can judge, his best usually ends up being fucking amazing. The professional side of this isn’t what Pete’s worried about.

 

It’s just that he can’t stand Patrick.

 

Now, Pete gets it. The long, stupid non-disclosure agreement isn’t put up because this guy is some eccentric genius, it’s not because he’s some sort of aloof, mysterious and misunderstood artist. He’s just a deer boy, nothing more. A paranoid deer in the headlights, and given the lengthy legal document, he’s probably a weird control freak, too.

A weird control freak with murder weapons growing out of his head. One wrong step, one stumble, and someone is gonna lose their eyes. Those antlers look sturdy, and Pete doesn’t want to know what happens if they meet flesh and teeth and other bones, soft internal organs, blood vessels. If anything happens, they couldn’t even tell anyone – fuck, probably couldn’t even sue. Oh God, maybe that’s what the non-disclosure agreement is for, who knows what deer boy has done in the past?

It’s almost a shame the recording goes so well. Maybe that’s how Patrick gets away with being a strange, potentially dangerous antler-growing lunatic, by being too fucking good at this music shit. Tons of artist get away constantly because of their talent and network, maybe Mr. Stump is one of them.

 

Everything about this just feels so off. Everything except the music, and except Pete’s bandmates, who do not seem to share his opinion. They’re all polite smiles and enthusiasm, apparently not concerned with those goddamn stupid antlers dangling too close to everyone’s face. Andy is calm as always, and Joe doesn’t seem bothered that the antlers come way too close to his bunny ears (which deer boy keeps staring at as if they’ve personally insulted him). Gabe isn’t taking Pete’s side either, being all smiley and tail-wagging while Pete stays behind a little, trying (and failing) not to sulk.

 

When they’re done for the day, Gabe pulls him aside, leans over to throw an arm over Pete’s shoulder. They turn away from Patrick’s view, and Gabe whispers: “Look, at least pretend to be nice for a little, okay?”

Of course, his best friend has noticed his hostility. Well, it’s not hard given the tell-tale signs Pete’s body language sends. That’s the downside of his beautiful ears and the tail.

“We’re gonna be stuck with Patrick for a while,” Gabe continues, “let’s not make this too awkward, okay? Just give him a chance.”

“I hate you,” Pete growls, with no bite behind his words.

Gabe just grins, nudges his head before ruffling through Pete’s hair. “I knew you’d understand.”

 

 

Everyone is out already, but Pete takes a deep sigh as he turns to Patrick, who leans against the soundboard with his arms crossed, looking at him with huge dark eyes like he’s waiting for something.

“Well done, deer boy,” comes out if Pete’s mouth; Pete is not very good at pretending to be nice.

Patrick takes a step closer, lowers his head just a little, just enough to get those antlers way too far into Pete’s personal space. There’s fury in his expression, and it almost looks ridiculous given the long, blond lashes overshadowing those beady doe eyes and the two-colored lips. Patrick’s pitiful height doesn’t help either, but what _does_ help are those sharp hunks of bones pointing at Pete, and the menacing undertone in his low voice when he speaks up.

“Get lost, _puppy_.”

 

Well, fuck. This is going to be so much fun.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're getting a little insight into our little grumpy stag!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! I meant to update earlier, but life kept me busy.  
> Anyway, thanks to Snitches for beta reading and endless support, and thanks to all my friends whom I keep bothering with deertrick doodles and drawings for listening to me!
> 
> As always, all art done by me. Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

_Deer boy_.

 

The words burn with humiliation. How fucking dare that stupid puppy guy make fun of him like that?

 

Oh, Pete’s not the first one to do so. Patrick has heard it all, from kindergarten through school through his entire life, people have thought themselves to be _so_ clever when they demean his appearance.

 

It’s not like Patrick can hide his pitiful luck with mother nature. He tried, or rather, remembers being forced to, back when he first grew his antlers (so much smaller back then), and people looked at them with disdain. Called them a nuisance, bothersome, and _dangerous_. Told him he wasn’t allowed to run around on the playground with a pair of antlers, and that he could hurt the other children with them. Patrick’s protest that little Michael got to keep his sharp canine teeth despite biting him almost deep enough to leave a scar went unheard. No, _his_ antlers hit little Paula enough to make her cry, _his_ antlers got stuck in the bushes during hide and seek, _his_ antlers cause split lips, bruises, and all kinds of annoyances. People everywhere took a step back when they saw giant antlers growing out of his skull, scrunched their faces in disgust when the plush velvet protecting his antlers during their growth brushed over their skin.

 

So, the antlers had to go.

 

A procedure repeated for years, since the antlers grow back each year, and always even bigger than before. A defiant gesture, rendered obsolete by his mom dragging him to the doctor to have them removed, again. And again. And again.

Young Patrick had tried every sort of protest, kicking and screaming and banging his fists against everything and everyone, but the decision was made for him. The kindergartners wouldn’t accept a little disobedient boy with threateningly sharp bones on his head. School wouldn’t allow him in unless Patrick’s antlers had been neatly trimmed down to a humiliating-looking little stub, not considered _dangerous_ anymore.

 

So, with the antlers gone, shouldn’t life have been much better?

 

It wasn’t. Patrick still feels the burning humiliation of sitting in the doctor’s office time and time again, because he’s an inconvenience. Feels bright, teary-eyed shame and anger that he’s forced to have a part of his fucking body cut off as if it’s just a nuisance. The procedure itself doesn’t hurt physically, but it hurts emotionally, and the disgusting dry sound of bone mass breaking still haunts Patrick’s nightmares.

It’s funny how everyone always said that Patrick was going to hurt someone, yet no one ever stopped to ask if maybe, Patrick himself was the only one getting hurt.

 

Even without the antlers, people still took a step back. Patrick still had too-large ears and his awkward tail, with fur that wasn’t as soft as everyone else’s. Patrick tried hiding both, but that still left him with his black, shiny nose, the black streak on his face and upper lip, the freckles scattered all over his skin; and then there were his large, inhuman eyes that people don’t like to look at.

Patrick isn’t stupid, he can see the smirk on people’s faces when their gaze falls on his large ears, he can see they’re merely bemused by the markings on his face, and he notices how almost everyone seems to avoid looking into his eyes because they’re too big, the iris taking up too much space, pupils blown out of proportion. They look animalistic, but not in a good way, so he has been told. The long, girly lashes probably don’t help that impression.

People just don’t like to look at Patrick.

 

Thankfully, people like to listen to him. Or rather, the music he helps create. Patrick has briefly tried the band route, crammed behind a battered drum kit in other teen’s garages, hidden away in the background. That had been okay in principle, but actually going on stage, no matter how hidden, had proved to be too much of a hurdle. People don’t like to look at Patrick, and Patrick doesn’t want to be judged on his appearance. He doesn’t want people to think he’s just a creepy unfortunate hybrid who got less lucky in his animal traits than most others, he doesn’t want people to judge what music he has by the appearance he has been given against his will.

That’s how Patrick ended up where he is now, in a studio he can call his own, working with labels bigger than he has ever dreamed of, in every music genre possible. The price of hiding his appearance from the public eye is a small one to pay for all that. Everyone gets to hear him, no one gets to see; none of his creations judged by their creator’s unfortunate look, none of his success diluted by large ears, beady eyes, and antlers that no one likes.

Disliked or not, the antlers now grow proudly and unhindered from his skull, because no one can tell him what to do anymore. Being an artist, a successful one at that, grants Patrick the excuse of what everyone considers a quirk.

 

Truth is, they are inconvenient. His fully-sized adult antlers are huge, and they’re a heavy weight on his head. Patrick’s neck and shoulders hurt, and so does his back, from carrying a weight that wasn’t really meant for the human physique. They take up a lot of space, making it difficult to navigate in narrow room or crowds, which is why Patrick just avoids both now. Although with those antlers on his head, any crowd is willing to part for him, just so that they won’t get too close to sharp bones and the creepy-looking guy they belong to.

Right now, they’re at their biggest, a majestic piece of art that won’t last for much longer, but is very impressive to look at for now. And Patrick’s very glad for them, maybe more than ever, because they give him an air of confidence and superiority that is definitely needed around some snotty wannabe scene guy who calls him deer boy.

 

While Patrick can’t deny how much it bothers him, he also can’t deny how excited he is to work with puppy guy’s band. Their sound is new and intriguing, Gabe’s an awesome and energetic vocalist backed up by great musicians, and as much as Pete’s spoken words insulted him, his written words on paper are beautiful. Fall Out Boy has potential, and they can deliver on it, Patrick knows. He’s not going to back away from a challenge, he will not let anyone else snatch up a band that he likes.

 

Even if that means dealing with Pete.

 

It’s not just the sneery way he called him deer boy – still does so in his head, undoubtedly, he isn’t subtle with those judgmental stares – it’s everything else, too. How he always seems to make sure he’s two steps away, carefully calculates his position to be out of reach of Patrick’s antlers, as if Patrick were an actual wild animal incapable of handling himself. How he leans away when Patrick comes too close. How Pete’s eyes aren’t afraid to look into his, only to be full of distrust and slight disappointment.

Patrick knows he’s not a glamorous tabloid star, okay, he knows he doesn’t lead an interesting life full of stars and parties. He can’t get puppy guy into any of those cool parties that puppy guy undoubtedly dreams of attending, there’s no champagne, no hot tub, no drugs. No paparazzi waiting for Patrick, no pretty model boyfriend parading around, no expensive clothes, all of that isn’t Patrick’s style.

It’s very much Pete’s style, that much Patrick can tell.

Fall Out Boy isn’t that famous, but famous enough already to give a good glimpse into Pete’s character through the lens of someone else. Mostly of whatever poor photographer the band could find for their photoshoots, all involving questionable wardrobe choices, horrible set designs and way too much glitter. So what if Patrick dug through all of them, so what if he got one of the studio’s interns to search up on gossip and candids of the band and make a list of all the blogs Pete uses, it’s all very justified research. Pete may not be a huge name yet, but he does now how to get people to talk about him, how to promote his band, how to wear absolutely awful outfits that’ll grant him attention from everyone.

Almost everywhere with him, Gabe Saporta can be found, almost comically tall next to his bandmate. The two of them sporting matching horrible outfits, Pete on Gabe’s lap during an interview, Gabe and Pete together in a local radio interview. Gabe Saporta, always a little too close to Pete on stage, Pete’s head resting against his shoulder, Pete’s lips resting against Gabe’s neck, cheek, fuck, better not think about it. There’s no confirmation, but there’s also no denial.

 

Patrick isn’t jealous, he’s just a realist.

 

People like Pete like handsome dudes like Gabe, and while both of them seem to revel in attention, Gabe seems smart enough to keep the spicy details out of everyone’s eye. But what is to be seen is enough to lead to speculations, is enough to make Patrick’s stomach turn a little whenever he sees the two of them together in the studio.

Gabe’s arm thrown around Pete’s waist, over his shoulder, always just a little too close. Pete on Gabe’s lap while they go over some lyrics. A bouncy, happy Pete wagging his tail when Gabe scratches his ears after a good studio performance. There’s no reason to hold up the act in front of Patrick, so that can only mean it has never been an act to begin with.

 

Patrick isn’t jealous, he’s just a tiny bit disappointed that the universal truths are being confirmed time and time again.

 

 

Being a well-paid professional and a lover of good music, Patrick tries to not let his personal feelings get in the way.

So what if Pete thinks he’s a weird deer boy. He’s not the first and undoubtedly not the last to think that. Why should it bother Patrick any more than other people’s opinions?

So what if Patrick keeps staring at Pete’s pretty, soft-looking ears, with jealousy and the desire to touch the shimmery fur. They’d feel nothing like his own, Patrick is sure, because unlike him, Pete got fucking lucky.

So what if Patrick will deliver the best work he can, and it still won’t be enough to let Pete like him. That’s just how the world is.

 

“You’re not fond of Fall Out Boy,” Vicky observes while she has breakfast in Patrick’s office. Not that she doesn’t have her own office, but Patrick enjoys the company.

“And why would you think that?” Patrick grumbles in response while he eyes Vicky’s second donut. The pink frosting looks delicious.

“I don’t know.” Vicky shrugs, and her tone is casual, which can only mean bad things. “Maybe because you’re unusually grumpy, and always so tense whenever I see you before they come or after they leave? You’re not subtle, Stump.” She silently hands him the second donut, although words aren’t necessary to underline that statement.

Patrick takes it anyway, takes a bite while he tries to find an excuse. He’s taking too long, and besides, Vicky knows him too well to be fooled by lies. The donut tastes like delicious artificial strawberries, sugar, and slight resignation.

 

“You know I’m not fond of the newcomers,” Patrick eventually says. It’s not a lie. “They’re so eager and think they’re fucking rock stars because they had one hit. Suddenly, they’re all experts on music theory, marketing, sound design, and literally everything. It’s exhausting.”

“That was an excellent and very diplomatic answer.” Vicky smiles at him, and shakes her head. “If only I didn’t know you so well, and if only my job didn’t teach me to detect vague bullshit answers.”

The next bite of his donut tastes like embarrassment.

“’s true,” Patrick tries to argue around a mouthful of food, “there’s all this doubt, I’m good at my job, okay? I know my shit. But the puppy guy doesn’t fucking trust me –“

 

Of fucking course. Patrick bites the inside of his cheek, and hopes Vicky doesn’t ask. Which of course, she does.

 

“Puppy guy?” She cocks her head. “Isn’t Gabe a bit too tall to be considered a puppy?”

“Not him,” Patrick says with a sigh. God damnit. Patrick feels so cheap. A fucking donut was enough to bribe him into confessing his stupid insecurity over Pete. With resignation, he watches as Vicky mentally goes through the other members, before it clicks.

“Oh, you mean Pete?” It’s less of a question, and they both already know the answer is yes. “What’s he done?”

“Nothing, okay?” Patrick brushes the crumbs off his shirt, and shakes his head, careful not to hit anything with his antlers. “Not important. He just doesn’t like me.”

“You don’t like him either,” Vicky says with raised brows. “Everything else is going fine, isn’t it? The music’s been coming along, and the label liked what you got so far. So, why be upset?”

“Right,” Patrick says weakly, and leans forward to rest his chin on his hands. His neck aches already, burdened by the weight of extra bones sprouting from his skull. Nature really didn’t think this through.

 

Why bother? Pete’s just one of many. Just another up and coming rock star, just another one of his acts, just another pretty face – and most importantly, just another guy who thinks antlers and other deer features don’t suit a human body.

 

Vicky sighs in sympathy, then looks at her phone. “I’ll have to go,” she says while getting up, “but I’ll be there when you’re ready to talk about it.”

Patrick nods with a forced smile, and watches as she walks out. When he leans back into his chair, he notices she left the last donut on his desk. And not by accident, Patrick knows that. Maybe this day isn’t going to be so bad after all.

 

 

Fall Out Boy is back in his studio, and Patrick grits his teeth. He’s a fucking professional, okay, he can do this. And Pete sitting on Gabe’s lap – again – while they go over the next song, whatever, he can just ignore that.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Gabe starts, “you think you could get us that fantastic background vocalist?”

 

Patrick’s heart skips a beat. He’s pretty sure who Gabe is talking about, but he still clears his throat, and feigns ignorance. “Which one do you mean?”

 

“C’mon, there can only be one! That fucking awesome voice that’s in half the tracks you produce, Patrick.” Gabe looks at him expectantly, backed up by his bandmates nodding in unison.

“Heard him on Travie’s last single,” Pete chimes in, with equal excitement in his eyes that wouldn’t be there if he knew the truth. “That dude seriously has a great voice. It would be so fucking cool to get him for our album, too. Any way you could arrange that?”

Pete’s eyes linger on him a little longer, without the usual slight cautiousness or stubborn pout. It’s a nice change, Patrick has to admit, but he has to look away nonetheless.

 

Of course Patrick could arrange that, given that it’s _him_ who sang on Travie’s last track, and countless others too. He’s gotten his voice into quite a few songs, to be admired without the ballast of his appearance. That’s the way people like it.

 

“Y’know, I always wondered who did those background vocals,” Gabe says, and Patrick hopes he isn’t turning red. “I couldn’t find him credited anywhere.”

“The guy’s just shy,” Patrick answers with a small smile. Not a lie, really, but also not the answer they are looking for.

Pete cocks his head, and the usual air of apprehension is back. “Sure. He just happens to be shy, and not interested in getting credited, or getting any royalties.”

“Everyone is getting paid, don’t worry about that. Not that it’s any of your business,” Patrick snaps back a little harsher than necessary. He’s getting his money, Patrick earns more than enough. Not that it’s something puppy guy should stick his stupid nose in.

Sensing the tension, Gabe goes for a smile, and Patrick can see how his large hand curls around Pete’s hip, gives him a warning squeeze. Patrick bites his lip; he’d fucking love to do that himself, preferably with Pete naked, preferably with Pete looking at him with a smile and a laugh and past the grumpy attitude Patrick has kept up so far. Why does Pete have to be just like every other pretty (semi-)famous musician that’s walked into his studio?

 

Gabe’s voice interrupts that short-lived daydream. “We just think he’d fit well with what we’re going for here.”

Now is the point where Patrick could just say no, and avoid the topic forever. But the truth is, Gabe’s idea for the track is pretty good, and Patrick can already feel the gears turning in his own brain, catches himself playing around with the possibilities and his work ethos is stronger than his pride.

Plus, Pete looked so in awe when he talked about his parts in Travie’s last song, and Gabe seems so excited.

“Okay,” Patrick says weakly, “I’ll see what I can do. I’m sure he’d love to work with you guys.”

“Awesome!” Gabe high-fives Pete, before lifting him off his lap. “Time to get to work then,” he says while scratching Pete’s ear, which is rewarded with a playful growl and tail-wagging from Pete. Patrick turns his head away; what does it matter that Pete would never wag his tail for him?

 

“Thanks, deer boy,” he hears Pete say when Gabe’s out of earshot, “you’re not that bad after all.”

Patrick’s eyes widen. That’s the closest thing to a compliment Pete has given him so far. Patrick turns around, sees Pete taking a step back – presumably out of fear of his antlers – and takes a deep breath before he speaks.

 

“Shut up, puppy.”

 

Well, fuck.

 

 

“So, Fall Out Boy wants you as a background vocalist?” Vicky raises her eyebrow. “I don’t see any problem with that. You’ve done so before, what’s the big deal?”

Patrick scowls, and takes another bite of his pastry that Vicky got him. It’s filled with strawberry jam, destined to get his clothes dirty, but it’s delicious. Why the hell does Vicky know him so well, and why do his confessions have such a cheap price?

“They don’t know it’s me.”

“Yeah?” Vicky, already done with her food, takes a sip of her coffee and keeps staring at him. “Isn’t that the whole point of not giving credit, and having me set up those lengthy non-disclosure agreements?”

“I don’t want them to know it’s me,” Patrick says with a sigh, and licks a speck of jam off his finger.

“That’s the dumbest thing I heard from you in quite a while, Stump.” Vicky shakes her head, and puts her coffee down on Patrick’s table, careful not to place it on any important-looking piece of paper. “Just tell them, idiot. It’s not like they’re going to tell anyone, again, I remind you of your insistence on secrecy. You didn’t make such a spectacle out of this with all the other artists.”

 

“We already didn’t have the best start,” Patrick tries to argue, “look, they don’t like me much, okay?”

“ _Pete_ doesn’t like you very much,” Vicky corrects him dryly. “Which by the way are _your_ words, not his.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Patrick rubs over the bridge of his nose, and curses himself for his weakness for sweet baked goods. “They don’t like me, but they like the voice, and if they find out to whom it belongs, they’ll just be disappointed. Wouldn’t be the first ones.” With a scoff, Patrick stuffs his mouth with the last bite of his breakfast.

 

The argument is familiar to Vicky, who’s been with him pretty much since the start of his career, when Patrick was just the sound engineer and she the personal assistance of a terrible boss. Some things have changed since then, but others haven’t. Patrick hears her sigh as she takes her coffee, drinks up the rest of it in one go, and throws the paper cup in the bin with admirable precision.

“Here’s your schedule for today,” she says as she hands him a piece of paper; Vicky knows full well that Patrick likes to ignore emails from time to time. She pats his head – knowing she’s one of the very, very few people allowed to do so – and sends him a smile. It’s a little intimidating, and that’s not just because of her huge, sharp teeth. “Get over yourself, Patrick.”

With that, she’s out of his office, and Patrick sinks into his chair, rests his head against the back of it. Fall Out Boy is scheduled for studio time today. The day has just begun, and Patrick already has a headache.

 

 

It’s not getting better over the course of the day. Patrick knows he can’t afford to push back the vocal work for too long. Maybe he can gain a bit more time. He watches the members of Fall Out Boy warm up on their instruments, and wonders how he can get around all this. Maybe he could just record his vocals off-time, without them in the studio, without anyone knowing. It’ll spare everyone the disappointment.

But then, when he sees the band playing together, when he sees them having fun, sees them actually enjoying themselves, Patrick isn’t too sure about that plan anymore. Suddenly, his heart is aching a little at the thought of standing alone in the vocal booth, with the lights out and just him. No friendly faces, no encouraging bandmates. And he recalls how much fun he had with Travie, singing together and being an artistic unison. Gabe seems like a cool guy, maybe, he won’t mind that his backup vocals are sung by a tiny stag with control issues?

Patrick grits his teeth, and tries to focus. His shoulders hurt from the weight he’s been carrying on his head for weeks now, muscles aching, pain buzzing through him. The antlers will shed soon, he knows, he can feel it. Patrick just hopes he gets this album done before that. What’s a deer boy without his antlers? Just pathetic.

 

“Good work so far,” Patrick says at the end of the day, because again, he’s a professional, he can do this. “Heard you’re going to play what we have so far for the label next week – good luck on that.”

“We’ll fucking blow them away,” Joe says with a proud grin. Patrick smiles back, friendly, like a professional, totally not eyeing the very pretty, very soft looking bunny ears atop Joe’s wild curls. So much better looking than Patrick’s own thin hair and the coarse fur of his own ears. Cute, simple, just what everyone would like to run their fingers through.

General agreement from his bandmates follows, while Patrick rests his chin on his hands again, careful not to knock anything over with his antlers. But by now, years of experience usually prevent that from happening. Although they still haven’t prevented the aching muscles in his shoulders, and the pain low in his back.

“You want us to give you an update when we’re done?” Gabe asks, and Patrick shrugs.

“No need for that. I’m sure Vicky will tell me all the important details later.” That’s true, but what’s also true is that Patrick couldn’t stand an awkward phone call from the band – it’s already tense when they’re together in a room, and Patrick doesn’t want to know how hurtful Pete can be through a phone.

Pete, quiet as he usually is around Patrick, just leans against Gabe, ears flat against his black hair. There’s a snarky remark on his tongue, Patrick knows, but the warning look from Andy keeps it unsaid. Just like Vicky, Andy looks like someone not to be fucked with, and that’s not because they share the feline traits of large predators. Gabe throws an arm around Pete’s shoulder, says something about the upcoming meeting that barely registers with Patrick. He’s not jealous, he’s not jealous, okay, and Pete, he’s just another pretty boy who doesn’t like him, like so many before.

 

Then, the band leaves, still caught up in excitement as they exit the studio. Patrick watches them, sees how Pete’s ears pick up when Joe makes him laugh, sees Pete wagging his tail in sync with Gabe. The door closes behind them, and Patrick slumps over the desk, rests his head in his arms. It helps the ache in his shoulders, but not the faint ache in his heart.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More deertrick, everyone! Thanks to Snitches for beta reading!

 

 

 

Professionally, everything is going fine. Everything is going excellent – Patrick has a great ear, he has amazing ideas and he works well with the material handed to him, Pete has to admit that. The music they’re making is fucking banging, there’s already two potential singles, and they’re well within the strict time limit set by the label who wants the album out as soon as possible.

Truth is, Pete wants that too.

Because Pete still doesn’t like deer boy one bit.

 

 

Gabe is sitting on the couch with him, a mug of tea in his hand because apparently that’s better for his voice. Pete drinks Gabe’s ration of beer for him, because he’s just such a good friend. They’re back from playing for the label execs, who of course fucking love what they have so far, and what they love even more is that they are well within schedule. Fame-hungry assholes, Fall Out boy is here to stay, whether the album comes out in two weeks or two months. They’re not just a fluke little indie-hit. They’re going to be huge. And Pete can’t wait to be back on the road and touring again.

“I can’t wait for this to be over,” Pete scowls, rests his head on Gabe’s lap. “You think we can get some time off for a music video when we got the first single approved?”

“Dude, do I look like our manager? Ask someone who gets paid to get this shit organized.” Gabe yawns, then takes a sip of his tea. He doesn’t seem impressed by it. “What’s wrong with you, anyway? Can you stop being pissy for like two seconds? Patrick is doing great work, even you said so. We’re doing pretty well with him in the studio. He listens, he works with our ideas, he did a fairly amazing job so far. And he said he could get us the vocalist.”

“Right,” Pete scoffs, “the one that just happens to not want to be credited, like, ever? I bet deer boy is screwing him over real good. If everyone who works here has to sign that shitty non-disclosure agreement, what’s the poor guy gonna do, tell anyone that Mr. Stump treats him like shit? Oh right, no, that’s exactly what he couldn’t do.”

 

Pete is pretty pissed about this whole ordeal now that he’s given it more thought. The way Patrick tried to dance around the subject, the nervous flicker of his pink tongue over the black upper lip, the strange expression in his beady eyes that looked like shame, it’s all really suspicious. Yeah, Pete is sure he’s found another reason why working for Patrick requires several pages of bullshit to be signed.

It makes him a little anxious, too. Pete knows Patrick has pumped out a good amount of excellent work, but there could be so much more that never sees the light of day, so much no one ever talks about given that pretty much no one could afford a lawsuit and pissing off not only a good producer, but potentially the whole big branch of the industry that stands behind Mr. Stump. What if Patrick screws Fall Out Boy over, too? He could ruin them with a wave of his hand and that’s it, they’d be done and over and couldn’t even fucking talk about it to anyone.

Gabe puts his now empty mug on the coffee table, right next to the three others still waiting to be carried to the kitchen for cleaning. They’ll be waiting for a long time. “You’re too paranoid, Pete. I’m sure someone with that kind of voice could just bail and work for someone else if they really didn’t like working for Patrick.”

“Pretty sure there’s easily a way in contracts to prevent exactly that,” Pete argues, and Gabe just sighs.

“Look, let’s just get this album over with and be fucking glad if it works out, okay? ‘s not the first or last time you’ll see something you don’t like in the music industry.”

 

Instead of answering, Pete takes another sip of his beer. Gabe pushes him off his lap, and gets up to get the rest of his bandmates into the living room to re-watch Star Wars yet again. Partially because he must be sick of Pete’s whining, and partially because he’s bored being sober and all alone with only Pete’s complaints to keep him company.

Living together with three people pays off in moments like these when it’s just the four of them, the glow of the TV and the dawn of big dreams. Pete keeps up the pouting, but the wagging of his tail gives him away; he forgets his troubles for a while.

 

That is, until they’re back in the studio. Patrick is talking, something organizational that Pete has tuned out in favor of focusing on not getting to close to those damn antlers. Can’t deer boy sit a little further apart from them? The anxiety tightens Pete’s chest when Patrick jerks his head up, almost jams his antlers into the computer monitor sitting on the desk behind him. How deer boy hasn’t destroyed his equipment or disemboweled any of his workers yet is a sheer mystery. Well, maybe he has, and no one has found out yet –

“Hey,” Patrick’s voice cuts sharply through Pete’s thoughts. “Are you listening, puppy? I said we need to settle on the first single. I’ve said that two times now, a reaction would be nice.”

“Sure.” Pete nods, until a nudge from Joe and Patrick’s narrowed eyes signalize him that it’s not a sufficient answer. “Uh, we’ll go with Church Of Hot Addiction, right? Just as planned. I’m totally on board with that.”

“Great,” Patrick says in a way that makes it clear nothing is really great, “so you _did_ listen at least a little.”

Humiliation floods Pete, who can’t stand being talked to like that. He’s not a fucking child, there’s no need for this stupid deer boy to treat him like this. A defiant answer is on the tip of his tongue, swallowed when he feels Gabe’s warning hand and Andy’s disapproving gaze on him.

“It’s settled then,” Gabe says with a smile, “the suits liked it, too, so no problem there. Glad this is going so well.”

“Yeah, totally,” Patrick mumbles very eloquently, the solemn undertone in his voice belying his words.

Pete perks up a little. “Think we could get time off for a music video?”

Patrick scoffs, and shakes his head, antlers too fucking close to the technical equipment again. “Go ask your manager. I’m not the one booking your studio time or driving you around for the shoots. Find someone else to bother with that.”

An elaborate _fuck you_ and various other words burn on Pete’s tongue, but those antlers are way too fucking close, and Pete remembers the contract – if Patrick rams those things into his eyes, there’s nothing Pete could do about it. It’s probably not even covered by his insurance. Fuck this. Fuck all of this.

 

If only deer boy wasn’t so fucking talented.

 

If only Pete’s bandmates would stop bugging him about Patrick.

 

They’re back home in their tiny apartment (that Pete hopes they’ll finally be able to leave behind once this album makes them a ton of money), they’re out of the goddamn studio and yet, no way to escape that stupid stag.

“Pete, for the love of God, get yourself together and stop dicking around.” Andy sounds annoyed, and Pete looks to Joe for help.

“Andy’s right,” Joe says with an apologetic shrug. “Dude, you’re being a total idiot in front of our fucking producer. We _need_ him, at least until we’re done with the album.”

“We need him,” Gabe repeats, that fucking traitor. “So could you stop acting like a five-year old around him all the time? This is business, man, this is our album, our one chance. Let’s not screw this up.”

“I’m not doing this on purpose, I swear!” Pete may be lying here, just a little. Pete is also omitting how he may or may not have called Patrick _deer boy_ to his face – maybe it’s not the best time to admit that. “I just can’t stand the guy, okay?” At least that’s not a lie.

“You don’t need to be his friend, okay?” Gabe shakes his head, and throws his arm over Pete’s shoulder. “Just behave.”

Another _fuck you_ is right on Pete’s tongue, again, only to be swallowed. “Fine,” Pete says instead, only slightly insulted by the relieved sigh from his bandmates.

 

Thankfully, Pete doesn’t have to follow through on that immediately. While Patrick puts the final touches on the single, the band packs up in their van and drives out to shoot the video.

 

It’s easy to follow his resolutions when Pete’s away from the studio, away from Patrick, too busy on the set for the music video. Out here, everything seems so much easier, and Pete feels his anger melting away. There’s no time to dwell on creepy deer boys when they’re busy with make up, wardrobe, filming, and everything else. Pete sees Andy and Joe trying to hit on the half-naked girls with varying success, Gabe is mostly drunk, and Pete spends a fair amount of time in a bunny suit, pretending to seduce Gabe while trying not to die of heat stroke. The suit is very inconvenient and seriously just a bitch to wear, but the band considers the reveal that it’s Pete inside the suit at the end of the video pretty funny. Gabe had suggested to leave that reveal for a later video, but Pete flat-out refused to ever get into that sweat-soaked health hazard suit ever again.

In every other scene, Pete wears all the terrible neon and glitter that Gabe isn’t wearing (and that Joe and Andy flat-out refuse to even touch), drinks all the booze Gabe and Joe aren’t drinking, and is having a fucking blast on set.

Whenever the professionals are done filming, the band has their own cheap camera in their hands, filming for what Gabe decided to call the Cobra Cam, a name no one had bothered to challenge after the fantastic story Gabe hallucinated up. Their private little vlogs have found big approval with their fans, which is why the band makes sure to keep their website updated with every little shenanigan they can ban on film.

 

Andy throwing all sorts of disgusting ingredients into a blender, resulting in a mashed-up goo of unidentifiable color that Joe drinks in one go. A cut to a very sick looking Joe holding up the money Pete reluctantly paid for losing the bet.

 

Gabe, drunk on whatever booze, flashing a wad of cash as the band goes out to store for the most terrible clothes they can find. Tons of neon obstruct the view as Gabe tries to find out how many shimmery baseball caps he can fit on Pete’s head at once.

 

Pete, sweaty and a mess after wearing that darn bunny suit, carried bridal-style to wardrobe by a yelling Gabe who declares his love for his bunny spouse while Joe, behind the camera and most likely stoned, laughs his ass off.

 

Fall Out Boy at a party, Gabe giving shirtless Pete a piggyback ride through the room; knocking over people until they themselves tumble to the ground, a mess of purple hoodies and tattoos flashing. Pete spills his booze all over Gabe’s face, licks it up while laughing.

 

Pete, alone in front of the camera, trying his best to look very serious despite his excitedly wagging tail and perked up ears as he declares that if their album goes to number one on the charts, he’ll get a tattoo of Gabe’s choice. Offscreen, his bandmates laugh, and Gabe’s whistling is the last thing heard before the screen goes black.

 

Any second not spend on making music is spend talking about it somewhere, or trying to sell it. Music videos, promotional shoots, interviews, their schedule quickly fills up. It’s only the beginning, and Pete’s heart beats faster at the thought of what is yet to come, fame and money and their tour that’s about to be set up.

When everything is done they get to hear the finished product, Pete has to admit, it sounds fantastic. Not only that, but once it’s out in stores, it sells well, too. Much better than any of their previous stuff. Two weeks in, and the single keeps climbing up the charts with moderate success, and so much room for more.

It’s a fucking dream.  

Fucking awesome.

But also, _fuck_.

 

Because that means Fall Out Boy is back in the studio, meeting with deer boy again, who just helped creating their first successful single of this album. Sure, that’s amazing, but it dawns on Pete that they might not get rid of Patrick that soon. What if they’re forced to come back and work with him for the rest of their career? Oh god, better not worry about that now, or anytime soon.

On top of that, as much as Pete basks in the beginning of their rising fame, it bothers him just a little how he has to give _deer boy_ of all people so much credit.

They’re this close to wrapping up the second single, and they’re not so far away from finishing recording the album which means fucking freedom for Pete.

“That went well so far,” is all Patrick comments nonchalantly on the success of the first single, as if that weren’t a huge fucking thing. Oh yeah, just another day in the life of famous star-producer Patrick Stump. A frown tugs on Pete’s lips, and he crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“That was goddamn _amazing_ ,” Gabe corrects, tail wagging a little as he looks at Patrick with amazement. Pete holds back a scoff. Deer boy is just the producer, there’s no need to make such a big deal out of it. “We’re gonna get fucking big, bigger than we already are! You know how much radio play we’re getting? And MTV airs the video like crazy!”

“They better do,” Pete can’t help but say. “I spent way too much time in that dumb bunny suit, that shit better pay off.”

Patrick clears his throat, and squirms a little in his seat. Is he uncomfortable? Why, is he too good to have a little fun? Uncomfortable with the idea that a man was inside the suit?

Pete’s ears perk up, and he has a hard time suppressing a growl. Why must deer boy hate everything he does? “Well, we all thought it was awesome,” Pete says with pride, because fuck Patrick for not getting it. “And it got people to laugh. Got them to talk. It totally paid off.”

In truth, it got also got a lot of people to talk shit. Not everyone likes Fall Out Boy’s brand of humor, and quite a few people don’t shy away from all sorts of insults, everything from _sellouts_ to _self-righteous assholes_ to _fucking_ _faggots_.

And with the way Patrick stares at him, Pete is sure deer boy falls under the category of people who did _not_ like the video. He’d rather not know what sort of deprecating insults Patrick would have in store, but then again, who the fuck cares what he thinks?

 

“Glad you all had _fun_ ,” is all Patrick say; by now, Pete is sick of etiquette lectures from his bandmates, so he keeps his mouth shut and his itching middle finger tucked into a tight fist. Better not upset anyone, especially not a man armed with giant antlers.

Pete rests his chin on Gabe’s head (which is only possible because Gabe is sitting down – screw that fucker for growing so tall), relaxes a little when Gabe reaches up to scratch his ears. A shadow hushes over Patrick’s face, darkens his doe-eyed stare for a second. Pete’s irritation only intensifies.

“Fall Out Boy may be headlining a tour!” Joe is all eager and excited as well, bunny ears perked up as he leans forward a little. Once more, Patrick’s gaze brushes over them, black eyes narrowing just a little. The fuck is deer boy’s problem here?

Joe doesn’t seem to notice, he’s too caught up in babbling about the festivals they’re already booked for, how they’ll get a real tour bus, not just their own shitty van, and all other sorts of things Patrick probably doesn’t care about. He’s just their damn producer, here to do one job, and that’s, well, producing music. If only Pete’s bandmates could see that, too.

If only Patrick weren’t that fucking good at his job.

 

Their lead single keeps climbing the charts, and Pete is both happy and anxious. Not only does it mean they’re potentially stuck with Patrick for a longer time, it also means that suddenly, there’s tons and tons of expectations placed on them. The more they get, the more the band is expected to give back, and Pete finds himself growing more and more nervous.

It doesn’t help that all of the sudden, their label is against the track they offered as the second single. Dance, Dance is as much Pete’s song as The Church Of Hot Addictions was Gabe’s baby, and having it refused hurts. It only furthers Pete’s already overwhelming anxiety about the whole situation.

 

“The label doesn’t like it,” Gabe explains to Patrick, who must know already, but still pretends to listen with an interested look. “Too many words, too many heavy riffs, they say that Dance, Dance deviates too much from Church Of Hot Addiction.”

“Every word belongs exactly where it is,” Pete says through gritted teeth while he’s pacing the room. It’s _his_ lyrics, it’s _his_ fucking song, and he can’t stand seeing it being torn apart like that by some stupid suits with no interest in art. “It’s poetry, and my words _mean_ something. I can’t just replace them, or yank them out of the song completely only because some asshole thinks kids and teens are too stupid to process them.”

To his surprise, Patrick nods solemnly, and is there a hint of anger on his face? “We’re done with the track, and I think it sounds fantastic. I wouldn’t want to change anything.”

“Well, it’s nice that at least _you_ think that,” Pete scoffs, “because no one else in the industry apparently does, and it makes me so fucking _angry_.” He’s about to climb up the walls, maybe kick something, pent-up energy wanting to be released. Gabe, always attentive when it comes to the signs of a potential nervous breakdown, pulls Pete to sit down on his lap, and scratches his ears a little. That always helps, temporarily at least, it’ll do until they can get out of the studio and Pete can let off some steam elsewhere.

Patrick looks away, narrows his eyes. Thoughtful silence lingers between them, before he speaks up again. “So, you all think we should go for the song like it is?”

Everyone nods, and Pete feels himself relax a little when he’s reminded that at least his band has his back.

With a sigh, Patrick rests his chin in his hand. He does that a lot, Pete suddenly realizes, and his eyes wander up to deer boy’s antlers. He wonders what it’s like to have several pounds on bones growing out of one’s skull.

“I’m sure it’ll work out,” Patrick says, and gestures the band to get up. “Nothing you can do about that right now. Let’s just focus on today’s schedule.”

The band heads for their instruments again; when Pete turns around, Patrick’s gaze lingers on him, a pensive look in his large eyes, his almost pretty lips parted as if he were about to say something. But when he realizes Pete has noticed his staring, Patrick just looks away, and presses his mismatched lips shut.

Good.

Because Pete can very much live without deer boy’s personal opinions on anything he’s not paid to have thoughts on.

 

Next time they’re back in the studio, Pete hears the first great news from Patrick in a long time. Just as deer boy is done listing today’s schedule, Pete clears his throat, and asks as politely as he can manage: “Sorry, but… You didn’t mention anything about re-recordings, or picking a new single? We could still –“

Patrick waves his hand to interrupt him, but the way his lips curl into a small smile paired with the faint glimmer in his big eyes lets Pete’s ears perk up.

“Oh, the label approved of the song,” Patrick says casually, as if the band hadn’t been agonizing over this fight with the execs for days now. “So, no need to worry.”

“Really?!” Pete can’t help but ask, and when Patrick rolls his eyes and nods – antlers, his fucking _antlers_ , when will he stop swinging those damn things around? – Pete can’t help but let out a victorious roar as he high-fives his bandmates. In truth, Pete hadn’t had much hope left, given that Fall Out Boy has barely made the label their money back, being a small band who just got a way too expensive producer for only their second album. If the label had put their feet down, Pete would’ve lost his song as just an album track, hell, if they were petty, maybe completely.

Gabe tilts his head, ears flicking a little as he looks at Patrick contemplatively. “Well, I wonder if someone helped them change their mind.”

Patrick just shrugs. With his huge dark eyes and his boyish face, he almost manages to look convincingly innocent. “No one needed to change their mind, because it’s a fucking great song. They just… Needed a little help to understand that.”

A triumphant grin appears on Gabe’s face. “And that someone was you, I guess?”

That only gets Patrick to shrug again. He looks away, flustered; weird, Pete thinks. “You all got what you wanted, so why don’t we shut up and get back to work?”

There it is, the familiar brash tone, but today, Pete can’t help but wonder if maybe, Patrick doesn’t mean his words. If maybe, they’re a wall deer boy defends himself with, metaphorical antlers matching the ones on his head.

 

Catching his pensive gaze, Patrick merely scowls at him, black upper lip twisted into a sneer. Pete sighs, and discards his poetic thoughts. Maybe, deer boy is just a talented jerk.

 

Pete discards all thoughts about the deer boy once they’re back to filming the second video. Again, it’s a real set, with real people working behind the scenes, directors and editors and best of all, a fully stocked catering table full of free food. Pete feels like a fucking rock star already. The band is having fun on set, driving the make-up artist and wardrobe people insane with their demands for the tackiest looks possible, and documenting all their off-set antics with the camera Pete is already mentally replacing with something better once the money rolls in. There’s no time to think about Patrick when Pete is putting on his best moves for the camera, only outdone by Gabe’s intentionally awful dancing. There’s no reason to worry about deer boy’s stupid feelings when Pete is babbling for the vlogs, when Gabe, high on something, repeats his epiphany on cobras again, when Andy films Joe, Gabe and Pete setting off illegal firecrackers in an empty parking lot.

Filming and photo shoots, more interviews, and Pete scores with two of the extras on set, giggling aspiring actresses with dreams so similar to his own.

Fucking rock star indeed.

 

Dance, Dance gets released according to schedule, and again Pete has to admit, Patrick has done a damn good job with handling this song. It sounds fantastic, polished up and with the last glossy touches, all energized and like something exciting, brand new, something that will take the world by storm.

It charts, of course. Higher than their previous single. Pete feels ecstatic.

They watch as the music video plays on MTV on their shitty little TV, Pete hears the song on the radio, fuck, people are singing along to his own words.

They watch as ads start to be plastered all over town, their own faces staring back from the promo billboard, like a surreal hiccup in reality. Like a dream, and Pete is afraid to wake up any second now.

He doesn’t wake up. Instead, Dance, Dance becomes even more successful than their lead single, and the world seems to have gone mad.

 

The album is almost done. Soon, Pete will be free. Back in the studio, although Pete can count on one hand how often he’ll return to antler-wielding producers. He’s itching, pent-up energy buzzing under his skin. The tour is set, and Pete wants to go back on the road, in front of screaming audiences, finally playing their songs on stages bigger than ever.

Deer boy has been quiet, which Pete is very thankful for. Maybe, Patrick is as relieved as he is. Just a few more hours, and they never have to see each other again. Yeah, Pete is thankful for the amazing job Patrick has done, but still, that doesn’t mean he has to _like_ him.

 

“It still means you should thank him,” Gabe whispers into his ear while deer boy and Joe go over some guitar parts in the song. “Don’t be an idiot, Pete. _He_ pushed Dance, Dance.”

“Yeah, and? He did it for his own sake. He just liked the work he did with this song, and dee- _Patrick_ doesn’t look like someone who can accept criticism.” Pete pouts as he leans on Gabe’s shoulder, playing with Gabe’s ears. They’re stiff under his touch, forced into the pointed position forever, and unlike Gabe, Pete hasn’t quite shaken off the sadness over that. He rests his head on Gabe’s curly hair, and hears him sigh.

“Does it matter? The outcome is the same,” Gabe argues, “just say thanks. It’ll be better to remain on good terms with him. Be a good son of a bitch.”

“I always am,” Pete says with a pout that’s betrayed by his tail wagging. Gabe laughs, and Pete hugs him tighter, thankful to have such an awesome friend at his side.

 

When they’re done for the day, Pete stays behind, encouraged by his bandmates’ thumbs ups and meaningful glares. Pete reminds himself that Patrick, unlike Fall Out Boy, is a big name in the industry, that he’s just being a professional here by thanking deer boy, and that soon all this will be over.

“Something on your mind?” Patrick tilts his head, curiosity in his big eyes as he takes off his headphones. His oversized antlers prevent him from wearing them on his actual head, so they dangle upside-down at his chin, looking ridiculous.  

Pete takes a deep breath. “I just wanted to say thanks.”

“You want to say thanks?” Patrick stares at him with furrowed brows, doe eyes fixed on Pete who’d rather not be stared at like that with eyes like those. It still kinda creeps him out.  

“Yeah,” Pete squirms a little, “for talking to the label, and pushing the single. They wouldn’t have listened to us, so… If it weren’t for you, who knows what the song would’ve ended up like. Thanks for believing in our work.”

“Of course I believe in your work. That’s why I agreed to be your producer.” Patrick seems less than impressed with Pete’s heartfelt expression of gratitude. “Everyone got what they wanted, right? Your band got the song they wanted, you got your attention, the label got their money. Like it’s supposed to be. No big deal. I just did my job.”

“Exactly,” Pete confirms with less sternness than intended. That’s exactly what Pete keeps telling himself, too. Patrick is their producer. He’s just doing what he’s paid to do, no big deal, right? Then why do the words sound so sad in his ears all of the sudden? No, Pete tells himself he’s just trying to search for depth when all there is are just cold business and a professional producer managing his products.

“Is that all?” Patrick asks, arms crossed in front of his chest, head tilted just enough to not let his antlers hit anything. How he keeps doing that is a mystery to Pete.

“It sure is, yeah.” Slightly irritated, Pete nods. What else would there be to say? Can’t Patrick just accept a little compliment? Pete is trying to be nice, he really is, but deer boy is giving him a hard time here.

“Good.” Patrick turns away from Pete, and turns his attention back to the sound board. “Then go waggle your tail somewhere else, puppy.”

 

Oh, that is so fucking cheap. It’s not Pete’s fault nature gifted him with a tail to express emotions, and it’s not his fault he has a lot of those to express. At least Pete’s not the one who points his stupid fucking antlers at other people to convey disdain.

Everything in Pete wants to lunge forward, and punch deer boy right into his stupid face, right on that black shiny nose so that red blood joins the copper of his freckles and the pink of his lower lip.

 

With what little self-restraint and common-sense Pete has left, he manages to just turn around, and leave the studio without any further comment. The door is slammed shut with a little too much force, but if Patrick calls him out on that, Pete can’t hear so anyway.

 

Screw that fucking deer boy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Leave a little comment if you liked it ;)
> 
> More words and art to come...!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, back with our deetrick and his puppy! Today, someone new will enter the story.  
> As always, thanks to Snitches for beta reading!
> 
> All artwork done by me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once the door closes behind Pete with a too loud thud, Patrick’s composure falters.

 

He sinks back into his chair with a deep sigh and even deeper regrets. Patrick wishes he could rest his head somewhere, lay down a little, get some relief from the constant weight on his shoulders. Every muscle aches, everything hurts, and Patrick just wants to curl up in bed and maybe not talk to anyone ever again. At least for the next twelve hours.

 

It’s the first almost nice conversation he’s had with Pete, and yet he somehow blew it. No, not true, he never had a chance to begin with. Patrick bites his lips while he tries to massage over his neck. Goddamn antlers and faulty anatomy.

Pete just wanted to say thanks. Of course, that’s all the reason he would ever have to talk to Patrick. What did he expect? That Pete apologized for the stupid disrespectful nickname, that Pete suddenly threw himself on the floor and asked for forgiveness? That Pete wanted to say more than thanks, that Pete would ever be interested in a relationship that went beyond the professional one?

What foolish hopes to have.

What Patrick has to offer is music and his influence in the industry, and that’s all Pete could ever care for. He’s not here for friendship or anything else. Just for the job that Patrick is paid to do. Like everyone else.

Waggle his tail somewhere else? Patrick scoffs when he recalls his perhaps too harsh words. As if Pete would ever do that for him! Patrick is not Gabe. Patrick isn’t good news. Patrick is just here to do his job. Although right now, he doesn’t feel like he’s doing a very good one.

Patrick stands up, winces when he tries to stretch his limbs. Pain jolts through his body, muscles still sore. Part of him can’t wait to shed the antlers, and finally have some relief for a while. It only gets this bad once they’re fully grown, a small price to pay for freedom. Soon they’ll shed, Patrick hopes, although please, hopefully after he can get the work for Fall Out Boy done. He doesn’t want to miss the confidence his antlers give him, and he hates that awkward phase of the cycle where they’re nothing but two plushy, pathetic stumps. And yes, Patrick has heard all the lame jokes about the correlation to his last name, no need to hear them repeated from Pete’s mouth, no need to see the same scorn he’s seen so many times repeated in Pete’s eyes.

It’s better to be a deer boy than just… Nothing.

 

 

Next day, Patrick finds himself in his office with Vicky, who’s holding out a freshly baked cookie from the nearby bakery Patrick loves so much. He feels cheap for about three seconds, until he gets a mouthful of delicious cookie. Fuck any sense of self-respect.

“And you’re here _why_?” Patrick asks gruffly with a mouth full of food.

Thankfully, Vicky knows him well enough not to mind. She just sits down on Patrick’s desk, and sprawls her selection of various breakfast foods and coffee over the table.

“Sorry, Patrick, but since you pretty much live in the studio, I have no choice but to outsource our friendship to the office.” She takes a bite of her sandwich, unbothered by the angry glare Patrick sends her. “Get a life, and I’ll get out of your office.”

“I have a life,” Patrick says rather pathetically. “I’m just… Busy.”

 

Well, Patrick has been busy for a long time now, but still. He has a life. He just doesn’t always have time to live it.

Which is why Vicky is sitting on his desk, rolling her eyes.

 

“Speaking of busy,” she says, “I heard you went to great lengths to get that Fall Out Boy single released? I thought the label wanted to scratch it? How come they changed their minds? Is it because of these mysterious phone calls full of yelling and that extra pissyness you put on in the last few weeks?”

“I yelled at them because they wouldn’t want to accept the goddamn work I did.” With regret, Patrick puts down his cookie. Why can’t he have nice things? “Look, I’m just doing my job here, okay? And I did a fucking good one with that single, and I’m not above pushing something if I consider it worth the effort. Those damn hacks at the label can go fuck themselves.”

“Easy there, Stump.” Vicky wipes her hand with a napkin, and grabs her coffee. “You’re very passionate about this. You care about Fall Out Boy,” she observes, “enough to go out of your way for what, a simple single?”

“I’m passionate about good music,” Patrick says snottily while he wipes off his hands on his jeans, “and that’s _it_.”

Vicky raises her eyebrows in a manner that makes it very clear she’s not believing him. She stands up, brushes over her skirt, black panther ears flat on her silky hair like always when she’s angry. “Here’s your schedule for today,” she says with a smile that’s more baring teeth than friendliness, “and maybe take some time off once in a while, so that we can talk about this somewhere else. Like real friends do.”

Patrick mumbles something that sounds vaguely apologetic, but Vicky is already out of the door.

 

 

Dance, Dance is still climbing up the charts, even higher than The Church Of Hot Addiction. Patrick knows there’s something special in that song, which is why he couldn’t accept the label’s decision. The music, the words, it flows together too well, and although Patrick, once more, highly questions the band’s choice of aesthetics for the music video, that doesn’t do the song any harm. Gabe’s vocals are fucking killing it, and Patrick hasn’t spent too much time on making sure Gabe enunciates way too many words in a too short time to just let it go to waste. He hasn’t watched the band give a killer performance, only to let it go unheard. He hasn’t spent too much time on touching up the final track to make sure it’s just right in every way. Patrick is no stranger to putting time into work that may never see the light of day, songs that won’t work no matter how stubbornly anyone tries, but damn it, he also fucking knows when he has something good on his hands.

While Patrick cares for music, underneath all that, he can’t deny that a part of him did it because Pete cared so much. The song is obviously his baby, and the thought of having to alter it – or worse, seeing it scrapped altogether – really made Pete angry and nervous in ways Patrick hadn’t previously seen.

He just wanted to be nice. Give Pete what little he could give. Apparently, given the hurt look in Pete’s eyes, he’s failed even at that.

Patrick sighs, and leans back in his chair. He needs to, his antlers are giving him hell again. He’s pretty sure it’s dark outside, although the studio he’s sitting in doesn’t have a window. The headphones bump against his chin – there’s no way he can wear them normally, with the antlers being in the way – and his eyes are watering the longer he stares at the computer screen. Work, he tells himself, as he clicks through Fall Out Boy’s website.

Cobra Cam is what they call their little vlogs – God knows where that name came from – and Patrick has seen them all. Work. Totally. A nagging, burning sensation churns at his stomach, and yet he can’t bring himself to stop. Part of him does it out of sheer masochism, and to remind himself why he needs to keep things with Pete professional, no matter how much of a pretty guy he is, no matter how much his friendly smile invites people to drop their guard around him. Not Patrick. No, not Patrick.

 

Joe, winning a frankly disgusting bet with his bandmates.

Fall Out Boy at the music video shoot, having fun on set.

Pete, spilling his drink all over Gabe at some party, then licking it off his cheek while they both laugh, their shirtless bodies pressed against each other.

Patrick closes his laptop, and feels sick.

 

When he heads out, it is indeed night already, although the city lights prevent darkness from ever taking over. Patrick curses as he bumps his head while getting into the car; there’s not much wiggle room with his antlers, despite him being such a tiny guy otherwise.

 

More darkness awaits him once he opens the door to his house. It’s really a little too big for just one guy, a foolish decision made when Patrick had been younger and had too much new money to spend. He fills the emptiness with tons of instruments and technical gear, a record collection, too many pairs of shoes, and anything else that covers up that there’s no one else to share the space with. When had he last someone over? Was it Vicky? When has he last…?

With a sigh, Patrick falls on his too-big bed. Well, that one has a legitimate reason, given how much space the extra bone mass sprouting from his head can take up. He piles up the pillows until they support his head enough that he can finally relax. When was the last time there were rumpled, sweat-soaked sheets as two bodies lay together? Weeks, months ago, must’ve been the fling with Michael, that cute guitarist from the session band he hired. Of course, Michael’s band got booked for touring with one of Patrick’s acts, which had ended the whole affair like it always did – with Patrick left behind, alone.

Self-pity floods Patrick as he tries to find a comfortable position to sleep. Never gets easier with those antlers, no matter how long he has had them now. Silence and darkness, but after a day at the studio producing music, the last thing Patrick feels like is listening to more music. He considers getting his laptop, but decides against it. Looking up Pete’s band while at the studio building, that he can pass off as work, but keeping up with the band’s personal life on the internet in the comfort of his own (lonely) bed? That passes a line. A line which Patrick wants to keep firmly guarded, a wall that he pushes Pete behind with every sharp word, every glare, every tight-lipped frown.

It’s better to be the deer boy then just another reject. It’s better to be _something_ rather than _nothing_.

 

 

Next morning at his office, Patrick has Vicky on the line. Patrick guiltily makes a mental note to clear off a day to spend some time with her. There aren’t many people willing to be his friend, and he’s afraid to lose the few he has.

“Heads up, Stump,” Vicky says cheerfully through the speaker, “McCoy is visiting today!”

“Really?” Patrick is never sure what keeps Travie busy when he’s not touring, the guy is everywhere and nowhere all at once. But right now Patrick is pretty damn glad that Travie decided to be here.

“He would meet you somewhere else, but since you practically live –“

“Alright, I get it!” Patrick interrupts her, embarrassment heating up his face. Damnit, even people currently not working with or for him feel the need to visit him in the studio. Patrick has a life, he really has, it’s just – he’s been very busy. There’s so much work. And his antlers are killing him. And he’s not doing well with Travie’s crowd of artists. And – whatever. He’s sure there are more reasons.

The search for excuses is interrupted when someone politely knocks the door, entering even without waiting for an answer. A six feet tall horned man stands in the door, and Patrick feels a beaming smile lighting up his face.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Stump,” Travie says as he heads over to Patrick, who hurries to get up from behind his desk to greet his friend. A handshake or pat on the shoulder would do, but despite their difference in size and despite Patrick’s large antlers and Travie’s horns spiraling out of his curly hair, Patrick finds himself in a tight hug. Somehow, Travie makes it work, as he always does. Patrick smiles to himself, and feels some of his tension drain from his body, a weight lifted from his heart. That’s just the effect Travie has on everyone.

“Happy to have you here,” Patrick says once they’re done with hugging. “I just heard from Vicky that you’re coming for a visit. If I’d known sooner…”

Travie sits on his desk – making Patrick wonder why he even bothers to put a chair in front of it when no one ever uses it – and shakes his head. “Sorry for being so busy. We’ll see each other properly when my schedule has cleared.” Patrick nods guiltily, aware that he’s yet again receiving a friend at his office instead of, well, wherever else friends are supposed to go.

“But I’m not only here for you, Stump.” Travie leans forward, brows raised. Patrick’s smile falters a little.

“I heard you’re having that new band over? Fall Out Boy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Patrick tries to be as nonchalant as possible, although he doubts he’s doing a very good job at it. “The label wanted me as their producer.”

“Worked out well, hasn’t it?” Travie smiles reassuringly, and pats Patrick’s shoulder. “What I heard so far is pretty damn good. I like their style a lot. Thought it would be nice to have a chance to meet them in person, I’m always up to see the new talent with my own eyes. If that’s alright with you?”

Jealousy rises in Patrick, and he wants to stomp his feet and scream _no_. He’s never been good at sharing, and he doesn’t want to share his friend with the stupid band. But the professional side in him makes Patrick hold back, and the adult in him wins out.

“Sure,” Patrick says instead. “Uh, well, there’s not too much left to do anyways. You wouldn’t bother us.” He hesitates, recalling that he’s heard the band talk highly of McCoy. Especially Pete. Bitterness taints these memories now, which Patrick tries to swallow and cover up with a smile. “I’m sure they’d just _love_ to meet you too. I was heading towards the studio just now – you want to join me…?”

“Get to meet a friend, and to make new ones,” Travie says with another smile as he throws an arm over Patrick’s shoulder. “Two birds with one stone.”

Patrick nods, careful not to ram his antlers into Travie’s arms, and careful not to let a disappointed frown take over his face.

 

As expected, the band is star-struck and all over Travie. Patrick has curled up in his chair, head rested against the backrest, which still doesn’t ease the dull throb behind his temples. Everything hurts. His neck aches, his muscles are sore, the headache is killing him and on top of that, jealousy holds his heart in a tight grip. No one in Fall Out Boy has ever been so excited to see _him_ , Patrick – well, that’s what he gets for just being the producer. With narrowed eyes, he watches as Gabe exchanges words with Travie, tail wagging in synch with Pete’s. Even the ever so cool Andy is just a little flustered as they all share a laugh. Travie is easy-going, friendly, and charismatic, it is impossible to dislike him; and on top of that, Patrick knows McCoy is a talented guy in many artistic regards, all wrapped up in an impressive six feet tall tattooed body adorned by two pretty ram horns peeking out of his curly hair. The perfect combination to be fawned over.

The band is only waiting for one more person to show up. They just don’t know he’s here in the room with them yet, taking the form of a nervous Patrick. He’d hoped Travie would provide distraction, maybe some calm, but Patrick finds himself uneasy and anxious. Still time to back out. Still time to just do the vocals in a recording booth and slap them on top of the track, never to be found out. Still time to -

“So,” Pete says casually, “about that dude who does the background vocals, wasn’t he supposed to be scheduled for today?” He looks at Travie with a smile, ears perked up. “Of course, I’m fucking honored to have you be here, Travie, but… We wanna get this done.”

That gets him a surprised look from Travie, understandably so. He knows it’s Patrick who sings; he doesn’t know that Fall Out Boy doesn’t. He opens his mouth, presumably to voice his confusion.

“Don’t, Travie,” Patrick interrupts, voice low with an empty threat. With surprise, Travie turns to him, brows furrowed upon such rudeness. But Patrick can’t have it. Not yet. Not here. Not –

 

“Ah, I see. Deer boy wants to keep his secret then.” Pete’s words are barely a growl as pent-up aggression unloads itself. The mood has turned sour, animosity thickening the air. Travie looks irritated, while the rest of Pete’s band looks utterly afraid of what may come next. “Tell us, why can’t we just fucking meet the guy already? Why do you keep that talent locked away in anonymity? What are you so fucking afraid of?!”

“I’m not afraid, _puppy_!” Patrick is on his feet in no time, head lowered as he glares at Pete with undisguised anger. Who does puppy guy think he is, and how could Pete dare to assume such things about him?! He curls his hands into fists, wishing nothing but to sock them right into puppy’s pretty jawline. A large hand on his chest holds him back – Travie, still confused, won’t tolerate violence.

Gabe reaches for Pete’s arm, while Andy steps in front of him, his calmness only betrayed by the tiger ears pressed close to his hair. “Enough,” Andy says in a firm voice, “we don’t –“

“I’ve fucking _had it!_ ” Pete shouts, and attempts to wriggle himself out of Gabe’s grip. Joe grabs his other arm, and they both manage to keep Pete at bay. They can’t keep him from shouting though.

“The secrecy, the attitude, and God knows what – just admit it, you’re no more than yet another talented jerk in this stupid ruthless industry, and you’re probably just waiting to push us down as well! So do it, deer boy, and since you hate me anyway, go try to stab me with your stupid antlers while we’re at it!”

“There’s no fear, and no fucking secrets! It’s _me_ , dumbass,” Patrick finally yells. “I do the vocals _myself_!”

 

For the first time ever, he sees Pete truly speechless. The rest of the band looks equally awkward and uncomfortable upon this unfortunate situation. This is not how Patrick imagined it at all.

 

“I’m sorry. I just – I didn’t know,” Pete mumbles eventually. His bad conscience is very apparent in the was his ears and tails hang low, how he lowers his head and looks away with clear guilt in his eyes. The anger disappears from his face, and he’s compliant in Gabe’s firm grip.

“Yeah, that’s kinda the point.” Patrick sighs heavily, and Travie withdraws his hand.

“That’s enough. From _all_ of you,” Travie says with authority, yet calmness.

Ashamed of himself, Patrick sinks back into his chair. His fucking back is killing him, and on top of that, he can feel the headache coming back stronger than ever, pressing against his eyes like the traitorous tears threatening to fall any second. He’s eternally grateful when Travie steps in front of him, concealing him and hiding how Patrick wipes over his eyes. They look ugly enough already, and even worse when damp with tears and reddened from ridiculous crying.

“Well, seems like there was just a lot of misunderstanding,” Gabe eventually breaks the silence.

“Do you really think so little of me?” Patrick asks; the phrasing is vague, although the question is meant for Pete mostly. “You think I’m some scheming dirty jackass who exploits artists for his own benefit? You think I’m that kind of person?”

“I don’t know,” Pete says helplessly, sensing that he’s the one addressed. “I don’t know, Patrick. You made sure no one knows _anything_ about you.”

“Well, _I_ don’t think that,” Joe says with a friendly smile, murmured agreement from Andy and Gabe who nudges Pete’s shoulder.

“I just – the whole secrecy, the NDAs, how we aren’t allowed to talk about anything… That’s very off-putting.” Pete shrugs helplessly, and to Patrick’s dismay, Travie nods slightly. As much as he is Patrick’s friend, Patrick is aware that Travie disagrees with a lot of his business politics. He would never seek a fight, but Travie has still made it clear where he stands on the matter in the past.

“And you’re such a controlling asshole in the studio, always pushing everyone and such a perfectionist,” Pete continues, and everyone’s guilty face betrays their agreement with these words. Patrick feels a blush spreading over his face, covering copper freckles with dark red. He knows he can be… A little much, that’s no secret, but hearing it out loud from Pete is something different. Not hearing anyone disagree doesn’t feel particularly encouraging either. And Pete isn’t done yet.

“And you’ve been nothing but rude to me – yeah, we don’t need to be friends, but you’ve never been anything but cold and condescending. Sorry that we got off on the wrong foot, yeah, but do you need to punish me for that forever? So, with all that in mind, Patrick, forgive me for assuming you have worst in store for people you hate even more. It’s not like the music industry is full of nice people to begin with, and I thought you were just another jerk.”

“Pete, I don’t hate you,” Patrick whispers weakly as he massages his temples. His headache is throbbing under his skull; at least the stupid tears have stopped. “What about you though, hmm? Always one step behind, and always staring at me – wait, you don’t really believe I would go out of my way to hurt someone with my antlers, do you?”

Another helpless shrug from Pete, causing everyone to exchange uncomfortable glances.  

“We don’t believe that,” Gabe chimes in nervously, while Travie raises his hands in defense. Not that Patrick worries about him, but… Pete’s silence betrays the unsaid yes that’s on his lips.

“I would never,” Patrick says in a brittle voice, absentmindedly reaching for his antlers, hard and familiar bone structure under his touch. “They’re not – they’re not for _hurting_ people. They’re just part of my body. Part of _me_ …” Patrick breaks off, looks away. There’s a whole speech on the tip of his tongue, dangerous unsaid emotions wanting to be let out. They’re swallowed down, it’s not the right time, not the right place, and not the right audience.

“I’m so sorry, Patrick,” Pete mumbles again, and he looks like he means it. “I didn’t _really_ believe it, just… You were so mean.”

 

The anger and tension has vanished from the room, and everyone seems eager to clear the air once and for all.

“As much as I love you, Stump, he has a point.” Travie cocks his head, sends Patrick a questioning look. His calm demeanor makes it clear he means no harm, isn’t out to insult, that’s not something Travie would ever do. But he’s waiting, and so is everyone else in the room.

With a sigh, Patrick slumps forward, wincing when the weight of his antlers provides even more strain on his neck. Suddenly, he finds himself struggling for words. Sure, Pete made a less than stellar first impression, but… Patrick hadn’t given him an easy time either. And what for? Because Patrick is weird and undesirable? Not Pete’s fault that Mother nature gave him pretty, soft-looking ears and a tail, while Patrick ended up with antlers and a deformed face.

Guys like Pete get to _be_ rock stars. Guys like Patrick get to _make_ guys like Pete into rock stars. Such is life, and hadn’t Patrick accepted that when he started his own studio, and made everyone sign agreements to make sure his appearance could never interfere with the world’s perception of his work?

So why make an exception for Pete, why treat him like anything special?

 

“You’re right,” Patrick finally mumbles, “and I’m sorry, Pete. It’s true, I’m not always the easiest to work with at the studio, but… I didn’t mean to make it extra hard for you. That was – let’s just forget it, okay?” He turns to the whole band, makes a helpless gesture with his hands. “Guys, look, I love working with you, and I consider your music to be great. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. It’s been a bumpy experience, but… can we still make it work?”

After a moment of silence, Andy clears his throat. “So, Pete, you’ll stop being an unprofessional name-caller?”

Pete sends him an angry glare, then turns to Patrick, now with regret on his face, and nods. Gabe pats his shoulders, soothingly strokes over Pete’s ears, sparking only the tiniest bit of jealousy in Patrick.

“You kids are such a mess, all of you.” Travie shakes his head as he pats Patrick on the back. No one dares to object that statement; what Travie lacks in years, he makes up for in maturity that everyone else in the room seems to be lacking right now. “Stump, I have no idea what the hell went wrong here, and it’s none of my business. Just… Try to get along.”

Another moment of silence, before Joe straightens his shoulders and speaks up. “Have we all made up now, please?”

Universal nods and muttered words of agreements follow; then, Gabe chuckles, and his grin brightens the room.

“Awesome, everyone!” Gabe sounds excited, and his attitude helps to lift the mood. “Does that mean we finally get to make some fucking music?!”

Laughter follows, and any sense of conflict is gone for good. The only weight left on Patrick’s shoulders is his antlers, and the only small thing nagging at the back of his mind is the way Gabe slings his arm around Pete, hand curling possessively into his hip as Pete leans into the touch, tail wagging again. Patrick blinks, and reminds himself what he’s here for.

“Yes,” he says with a small smile, “let’s make some fucking music.”

 

 

The vocal recording is fantastic. Gabe is giving it his best, and Patrick – Patrick is having the most fun he’s had since the band set foot into his studio. The solved crisis helps, and finally being active part of the recording process again does the rest to let Patrick fully forget any reasons he was upset. Headphones upside down on his head, he sings into the mic, and it’s – it’s good. It’s great. It’s pretty fucking great. This goddamn band manages to drag out everything inside of him, be it anger or enjoyment.

It doesn’t hurt that Travie stays with them, both a calming presence as well as a comfortable buffer, making sure that no one forgets themselves again.

It’s going so well. Patrick wonders why it took the band and him so long to get here, wonders if this is just temporarily, a small miracle. Circumstances that align perfectly. A hiccup in fate. Just an exception to their usual routine. Yeah, that must be it, the excitement of the upcoming tour, the argument, the relief, Travie being here, and Patrick singing… He’s just lucky for once.

 

At the end of the week, the band’s last studio session is scheduled. Vicky raises her eyebrows suggestively, but even her jam-filled donut can’t buy any statement about that from Patrick. What would there be to say? They did good work. They did great work. Exactly what he’s here for. Nothing more.

At the end of that day, Fall Out Boy is done with recording, and apart from the last final touches, there’s nothing left to do for the album. A sense of relief and dread looms over them. They’re happy to be done, happy to get back on the road, and anxious about how the new album will do. Just like every other band. Every other artist. Patrick keeps reminding himself of that as he keeps his eyes on the floor, not participating in Fall Out Boy’s little celebration over having completed the recording. He can hear Joe yelling, hears Gabe laughing, knows that Pete must be close, too close to Gabe, always too close.

A firm hand on his shoulder interrupts Patrick’s thoughts. “Thanks for all the good work,” Andy says with a smile, revealing teeth sharp enough to rival Vicky’s. Before Patrick can answer, the rest of the band has gathered around, expressing their gratitude as well. More shoulder pats from Joe and Gabe – when did they lose any sense of personal space? – as Gabe babbles about their upcoming tour, their great plans, something about a clothing line, and his intentions to party as hard as possible.

The excited words all blur together and blend into Patrick’s ever-present headache, until Pete speaks up.

“You weren’t all that bad,” Pete says with a flustered face, a look not often seen on him. “Sorry I gave you such a hard time. You did fantastic work. I’m glad the label pushed you to be our producer, and I’m glad you pushed the label to let us make the record we wanted. That means a lot.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says weakly. It’s the nicest thing Pete has said to him so far.

Pete shrugs, pulls up the zipper on his hoodie. His tail lazily swings from right to left, but at least there’s no more aggression left in Pete’s posture. “Hope to work with you again,” Pete says with a crooked smile, “we’ll make a better team next time, I’m sure.”

“Sure,” Patrick repeats half-heartedly; apparently, he’s been reduced to monosyllabic answers.

 _Thank you. Good work. Goodbye_. The endless cycle of Patrick’s life. At least, a snotty _deer boy_ and an angry glare were more memorable than bland professionalism. Now, he’ll be nothing but a soon to be faded memory in Pete’s mind.

 

Then, Fall Out Boy leaves.

 

 

The very next day, Patrick sheds his antlers.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, don't worry, everyone - Pete will soon have a good reaosn to come back to his deer boy... ;)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a little feedback, it's what keeps me going! :)   
> And I know we're not quite there yet but I can already say that when this fanfic reaches 100 kudos it'll be celebrated like always - with a big, fancy piece of artwork that you don't wanna miss out on...!
> 
> See you again soon, with more art next time!~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone and THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 100+ KUDOS!!!
> 
> I havent forgotten my promise, but I must delay the big artwork simply because I am going on vacation and had such a stressful schedule, I found no time to work on it... It's in the making though!
> 
> With that, a new update and the chapter art, all done by me as usual!~  
> Thanks to Snitches for beta reading!

 

Lights on, all attention to the stage. Fall Out Boy is playing in front of a cheering crowd in yet another sold-out venue.

“Me and Pete, the sons of bitches!” Gabe laughs into the mic, and smacks a kiss to Pete’s cheek, accompanied by laughing and screaming from the audience. Pete is sweaty, exhausted and exhilarated, and his grin feels brighter than all the dozens of stage lights pointing at them combined.

Fall out Boy fucking made it. And they’ll make it even bigger.

It’s not only the band that keeps Pete occupied. There’s more promotional stuff, photoshoots and interviews and talk shows and more Cobra Cam updates than ever before. Everywhere they go, someone seems to be with them, everything Pete does, it’s carefully documented and filmed and twisted into something that can be sold – to the label, stock holders, audiences, as merchandise, music, gossip, anything.

 

Life is both Hell and Heaven, and on some days, Pete doesn’t know which side wins.

 

Most times, it’s Heaven. He’s feeling good, better than he has in a while. The album sells well, the tour is doing great, and most days, Pete can ignore the anxious feeling of the bubble bursting any second now. Gabe’s always at his side, always a good friend, loud and a party animal but also calm and caring when he has to. Gabe is a lot like him, if Pete had any sense of responsibility and a less disordered brain (and if his damn body decided to not stop growing at the age of thirteen); Gabe understands, and Gabe can deal with Pete’s bullshit. Not to mention, Joe and Andy would never let him down either.

Yes, Pete has everything he needs. Almost. There always seems to be a little bit amiss. That cover they didn’t make, that award they didn’t win, that hurtful piece of gossip he can’t wish away… But he also has a growing fanbase who screams at his songs, giggles in ecstasy when Gabe kisses him on stage, grins and bats their lashes at him when Pete meets them backstage and takes them back to the shitty hotel or tour bus. They like to kiss him. Pete kisses back. It doesn’t quite feel right, so Pete kisses back harder until it does.

It gets lonely sometimes, being on tour so much, so Pete gets a puppy. He realizes the slight irony, and maybe vanity plays a tiny part in his choice of pet, although he decides for a bulldog as a companion. Hemingway – which Joe claims is the absolute worst name for a dog – is soft and fluffy and he’s the very best dog ever. According to Gabe, Hemmy is also “the most spoiled son of a bitch I’ve ever met, and I met _you_ , Pete,” but that sentiment is betrayed by Gabe’s love for both his canine friends. Pete doesn’t mind. Hemmy sleeps on his chest, drooling all over Pete’s Sons Of Bitches shirt, and it makes Pete feel at ease with the world.

 

Fall Out Boy, on stage again. If Pete catches the glimpse of antlers in the audience, he looks away. He _knows_ it’s not Patrick, but he still looks away. He isn’t sure why, but he is sure he’d rather not think about it. There’s no reason to pay any mind to rude little deer boys anymore. He can have anyone he wants, there’s more than enough pretty faces in the audience with much more human eyes and smiles instead of sneers.

 

Yes, things are going fucking great. Pete is on a high, and when he closes his eyes, he won’t be able to see when the downfall comes.

 

Things are going up, up, up. Aside from everything with the band, Pete becomes an entrepreneur, branches out into every sort of adventure he can find. Gabe’s with him, now that money is finally coming in, and together they launch that clothing line they’ve always joked about. _Sons Of Bitches_ becomes both their personal slogan as well as their brand name, no matter how often Andy claims their sheer vanity will come bite them in the ass one day. Neon and black, edgy and fun, the perfect combination of both their personalities. Andy and Joe refuse to wear any of it, which means it must be good. It also doesn’t matter, because Pete is willing to use every inch of his body as advertisement space – a graphic tee, a bright hoodie, a matching baseball cap, an outfit that mirrors what Gabe is wearing, who’s not above whoring himself out either.

People are talking, Pete knows, he’s seen it. There’s rumors, and there’s shots of him and Gabe on stage, hugging, kissing. Gabe, drunk at some nightclub, carrying Pete bridal-style. Pete on Gabe’s lap, Gabe’s hand curled into his hip. The promise of the tattoo of Gabe’s choice that Pete made. Dozens upon dozens of selfies of the two of them, always seemingly a little too close. Pete’s not interested in Saporta’s dick, and as much as Pete loves Gabe, that love is very much platonic – but it doesn’t hurt to pretend. The fans love it, they love a good show, and the conspiracy keeps up the interest, keeps Pete in the spotlight, basking in the warm glow of attention.

Things are going great, and they’re only about to get better when Pete finds a weird message in his inbox, and on a whim, decides to give it a try. He downloads the attachment, which most likely contains a dozen viruses, but Pete likes to gamble. This time, Pete knows it paid off after he heard the demo three times in a row.

Oh, things are going up.

A week later, Pete’s meeting bunch of kids calling themselves Panic! At the Disco. What he’s seen from them is nothing except their semi-awkward messages and the demos linked to him by someone called Ryan, and yet they’ve wormed their way into Pete’s mind, and caught his attention.

Their demo is fantastic. There’s something really good in this band, something that makes Pete believe. Sure, right now they’re just a handful of teens who didn’t even have a gig yet, but underneath the snotty attitude, behind the terribly cheap sound of their home-recorded demo, there’s more. There’s potential. It doesn’t hurt that the boys in the band are totally starstruck by him.

They’re a rainbow, and Pete smells gold at the end of it – money, as well as good music. And Pete wants it all.

There’s only one solution to keep this all to himself.

Pete’s gonna sign them himself. And they’ll be fucking huge.

 

Everything is going great, until Pete actually gets to see the band up close. In between two concerts he’s thrown on the least tacky _Sons Of Bitches_ -hoodie, grabbed Hemingway, escaped the tour bus, and is now standing in front of the four kids who reached out to him.

The first kid to introduce himself is Ryan, with whom he’s messaged already. Ryan is blessed by nature with the traits of a squirrel – the beauty pageant of the rodents. He’s a somewhat awkward yet cute guy with big eyes and a pair of small, adorable ears peeking out of his brown curls, and his unusual plushy tail is modest enough of size to pass as adorably quirky. Hemmy half-heartedly barks at him, before he lays down at Pete’s feet, too lazy to pretend to be an actual dog.

It’s the next member of the band, introduced by Ryan as their singer, who makes Pete’s smile falter.

Too-big eyes with too-big glowing, golden irises, with black diagonal slits as pupils, half-hidden by a terrible bowl cut. And on top of his hair, a matching pair of sharp horns spiraling backwards.

“Hi,” the horned kid says with a grin, “I’m Brendon.” He comes closer, and Pete automatically takes a step back, staring at the two very imposing horns.

What are the odds.

Pete wonders if it’s just his fate to run into talented people with dangerous horns on their heads.

 

The rest of the band looks fairly normal, just a sand-colored pair of cat ears and another puppy – a _mutt_ , Pete can’t help but think with a sneer – but that damn goat singer with his stupid horns has thrown him off.

Despite being a goat boy, Brendon is actually an amazing singer. Unpolished, and Pete also reminds himself that the band has yet to play a gig anywhere, but still. Pete keeps a little distance and reminds himself of the other guy with dangerous additions on his head. Trusting deer boy despite his initial resistance only turned out well, so Pete decides to give Brendon the same benefit of doubt. At least, unlike Patrick, Brendon seems to have little trouble with his appearance, and Pete is sure they can make it work. Maybe put some eyeliner on him and paint the horns a funny color. It’ll sell; because if anything, Pete knows how to sell the ugly and the weird.

Time for the next step. Pete picks up Hemmy, finds the soft fur under his hand a calming presence. As much as Pete is convinced of his success, he also knows his weaknesses. What he has is a completely unknown band with no experience, and a plan. What he doesn’t have is any more money, a functional label, or anything else required for making music.

What he also has is the flash of a pair of antlers before his inner eye, and an idea.

He looks at goat boy, eyes lingering over Brendon’s horns. Pete takes a deep breath, then smiles. “I know just the perfect producer for you guys.”

Next day, Pete has Vicky on the line. In truth, he hasn’t expected to get a hold of her – or anyone from Patrick’s studio – that quickly and easily. And what he certainly didn’t expect is how unusually helpful Vicky is. It’s almost suspicious, but Pete is used to success, and the universe just _owes_ him this.

“I’ll forward you,” Vicky says cheerfully, and Pete doesn’t question anything. “Oh, word of advice before I do that,” she continues, “bring some sweets when you meet him. He likes strawberries. Works every time!”

“Uhm,” Pete tries to intervene, but Vicky cuts him off, too busy for explanations. “Also, bring that dog of yours,” she chirps, “I know he likes Hemmy. It’ll be cute. Perfect way to break the ice.”

Before Pete can say anything, Vicky is gone, and his call is being forwarded. The next voice that greets him is a slightly irritated male voice that can only belong to one person.

“Mr. Stump!” Pete greets gleefully, “Haven’t talked to you in a while.”

The other end of the line stays silent, and Pete can basically picture Patrick sighing, as he rests his head on his elbow. At least his antlers don’t impact phone calls.

“Just Patrick is enough, you know that. And to what do I owe the honor?” Pete knows that Patrick swallows a sarcastic _puppy_ at the end of that sentence, but lets it go. “How did you even get through?”

“Vicky forwarded me,” Pete answers, not wondering why all of this was maybe a little too easy. He hears Patrick grumble something under his breath, and is tempted to make a humorous remark on Patrick’s bad mood.

“Well,” Pete says instead, “I’m here to talk business.”

“Business,” Patrick repeats slowly. “Uh, why? Don’t you have someone at the label for that?”

Pete grins. “Labels are exactly why I’m calling…”

 

 

Just a few days later, Pete finds himself in Patrick’s studio again, standing in the foyer with four other people, a bag of pastries, and Hemmy at his side. He’s wearing his trusted hoodie again, paired with a matching shirt, both displaying their brand name. A little advertisement never hurts.

The Panic kids are excited, and clearly impressed. It’s a big step up from high school, and must be even more impressive to a band who hasn’t even fucking played on stage once. Suddenly, Pete is not so sure how that can be sold to Patrick as a worthwhile investment.

Pete’s mostly nervous, rocking back and forth on his heels. Hemmy already stretched out on the floor, he’s cozy and comfortable anywhere as long as he can lay down, and maybe have something to eat. Pete is so damn jealous.  With a sigh, he keeps staring at the Panic kids, and wishes he at least still had their youthful enthusiasm.

“Pete.”

The sudden calling of his name makes Pete jump a little, until he realized it’s a familiar voice.

“Damn it, do you have to sneak up on people –“ Pete interrupts himself as he turns to the owner of the voice, and snaps his mouth shut when he doesn’t see what he expected.

On first instinct, Pete looks up, expects to see a giant pair of antlers towering in the air. But there’s nothing.

When he looks down, all he sees his Patrick’s face, still marked by copper freckles and the black spots on his nose and lip, golden hair hidden under a hat. A slight sneer, and too big eyes staring at him expectantly. The same dumb jeans jacket. Pete blinks – still no antlers.

“Patrick, what the hell,” Pete blurts out very intelligible, “what happened to your antlers?”

The mention of Patrick’s name catches the attention of the band, and before Patrick can scold him for the question or the fact that Pete has ruined yet another first impression, deer boy – _former_ deer boy? Pete is seriously confused – is surrounded by a bunch of teens all eager to impress. Pete supposes it’s not very professional that he doesn’t introduce the band himself, but that gives him at least another chance to take a closer look at Patrick.

Patrick – he’s, well, he’s still the same. Dressed like always, face unchanged, although he’s blushing just the slightest, clearly a little overwhelmed at the situation. Weird, that after all this time and all the stars he’s worked with, he still gets nervous even around a group of no-ones. It’s almost endearing.

But the antlers – or rather, lack thereof – still throw Pete off. Only upon second glance does he notice two weird stumps peeking out of Patrick’s hat. They’re so tiny, and there’s something weird covering them. Hair? Fur? They don’t look like the majestic antlers Pete is used to see on Patrick at all.

Without the antlers, Patrick suddenly looks so much smaller. Way less intimidating. And less secure in himself.

He also doesn’t say a single word to Pete while he escorts them all to the studio.

Pete is not sure if things will continue to go great.

 

Fifteen minutes later, and the band is going wild over instruments. Patrick has asked them which brand they prefer for recording, only to receive a stunned look in reply. All these boys have are their patched-up instruments they’re lucky enough to even own in the first place. That got Patrick to furrow his brows and give out instructions to choose something of better quality to not waste anyone’s time with shitty acoustics.

“They could just use their own instruments,” Pete proposes, only to receive an angry glare.

“I didn’t invest tens of thousands of dollars into my equipment and hours of my time just to record some shitty half-broken guitar and a guy who doesn’t know how to sing into a real microphone.” Patrick crosses his arms, peeks at Pete from under the brim of his hat, dark eyes overshadowed by bright lashes. The gesture has a totally different vibe given the missing mass of sharp bones on Patrick’s skull. It doesn’t look intimidating; it looks insecure. Like he’s hiding behind a hat and hurtful words, body covered by crossed arms and the unusual traits of his face kept from sight.

Irritated, Pete looks away.

Much to Pete’s pride, the Panic boys do well. They’re not great, they’re too inexperienced for that, but they clearly show the _potential_ for greatness, and their lyrics and music are far better than is has any right to be coming from a bunch of boys barely out of high school. Pete watches deer boy, anxious to see his reactions. With a concentrated look on his face, Patrick listens closely, because despite everything, he’s always giving his everything at his job. Eyes narrowed, ears perked up, headphones now sitting the right way on his head since there are no more giant antlers blocking their way. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, and part of Pete is angry that his future has yet again dependent on Patrick’s judgement.

But the bigger part of Pete can’t help but hope for approval. Because despite everything, Pete trusts in deer boy’s opinion more than he’d like to admit.

When Panic is done, Patrick sets his headphones aside, and motions the boys to get out of the recording booth. The anticipation is killing Pete, and judging from the looks on the band’s face, they’re feeling the same.

Patrick stands up and lets out a deep breath.

“Let’s make this work.”

For the first time, Pete finds himself in Patrick’s office.

Pete sighs, and sits down on the desk, nervously swinging his legs and ignoring Patrick’s comment about the existence of a chair. He lifts Hemingway up into his lap; Hemmy lets out a tiny yelp, expecting to be petted like always. For the first time, Patrick sits up, and there’s a flash of excitement in his eyes. The parted lips still hold back the words, but Pete can guess the request anyway.

“Go ahead, you can pet him. He loves everyone, as long as they don’t eat his food.” Pete lovingly pokes Hemmy’s nose, who only yawns in response.

With a smile, Patrick leans forward, carefully strokes over soft ears and speckled fur. “He’s such a cute puppy,” he says adoringly as he pets the sleepy bulldog, “although I think that Hemingway is a terrible name for a dog.”

Pete just silently thanks Vicky for the advice to take the puppy with him, which –

Realization finally hits him. “Wait a second. How the hell did you know I had a dog? Why do you know Hemmy’s name, even?”

“Did I?” Patrick asks, his twisted lips and the indirect admittance of guilty giving away the terrible attempt at lying. He doesn’t look up to Pete, just keeps stroking Hemmy’s belly, who doesn’t care about any interpersonal drama anyway.

“Vicky told me. And you knew his name without me even telling you.” Pete’s not backing away. He keeps staring at Patrick, whose big black eyes are still avoiding him. Without the huge antlers and the usual sense of superiority surrounding the deer boy, his eyes seem less strange, less intimidating. Without the harsh words on them, his lips seem less off-putting, and despite the odd coloring, the pink lower lip caught between his teeth is a nice sight. Without the absence of daylight and the gloomy studio light, the freckles on his soft, pale skin look sort of cute. Without the usual surroundings of his studio, without the soundboards and instruments and screens, Patrick looks a little lost.

It dawns on Pete that he’s seeing the private side of his deer boy, which so far has always eluded him given that they’ve just worked together.

No other bandmates. No Gabe, no Joe, no Andy, no technicians, no anyone. No making music, no going over lyrics, no editing, nothing. No computer screens, no instruments, no guilt or wrong words to make up for. Just the two of them.

Patrick clears his throat. “I just… Like to keep up with my acts. And you keep making news these days. Hard to escape your face. And how could I forget the name of such a cute little doggie?”

Pete grins, fakes an exasperated sigh. “I’m so honored by that, Patrick!”

He expects deer boy to roll his huge eyes at him and give some semi-insulting, sarcastic reply. Instead, Patrick’s face turns cherry-red, and he lowers his head so far that all Pete sees is the black tip of his nose and the two fuzzy stumps peeking out of Patrick’s hat.

“I meant Hemingway,” Patrick retorts, a little too late and his voice a little too high-pitched. “Don’t be so stupidly self-absorbed, puppy.”

There’s the reply Pete expected, and yet it feels too off. Pete only meant to tease him a little, why all the embarrassment?

Awkward silence settles between them. Patrick keeps petting Hemmy, a welcome distraction, until Pete remembers Vicky advised him to bring something else for Patrick’s amusement. Reaching for his bag, Pete hopes Vicky wasn’t playing him for a fool here.

“Hey, so. Got us some snacks, too.” Pete holds out a paper bag to Patrick, which contains the sweets that were suggested – it’s a small tart with strawberries from a nice little bakery just around the corner. Personally, Pete never would’ve bought this for himself, he prefers Starbucks coffee and their selection of snacks, but that didn’t seem impressive enough for the big producer man.

A few more painfully awkward seconds pass, and Pete is almost afraid he’ll get yelled at or thrown out. To his surprise, Patrick breaks into a small laugh, then takes the pastry from Pete’s hand. “Let me guess, Vicky told you about this too?” He asks amused as he unpacks the tart. “Strawberry – yeah, this is either a very big coincidence, or Vicky’s doing.”

Utterly relieved that the mood has improved, Pete nods. “It was totally her idea, so if you actually hate strawberries or whatever, blame her.”

Patrick just shakes his head, but his tongue flickers over his two-colored lips, still curled into a smile, before he takes a bite. Personally, Pete would prefer a poptart right now, or maybe a donut, but he bites into his own overpriced pastry instead. Hemmy expectantly opens his mouth, disappointed by the lack of food he is receiving. Pete sits him down on the floor, then turns to Patrick again.

“So,” Patrick asks between two bites, “Am I getting this right – you want to start your own label, and those Panic kids are going to be the first band you sign?”

“Exactly.”

Patrick swallows his bite and licks a speckle of jam from his weirdly colored lips. They really do look a lot better without the usual scowl. “Why are you discussing this with me?”

“Well,” Pete starts, takes a deep breath. “I have most of the legal stuff worked out, I have the band, and I have a vision. Potential. Ideas. Talent. What I don’t have is…”

“Everything else,” Patrick ends the sentence for him, eyebrows raised as he wipes his hands on his jeans.

“That’s right, and that’s why I’m here to make you an offer.” Pete stands up, tries to keep his ears relaxed and forces himself to hold his traitorous tail still. Deer boy needs to take him seriously. “Be my partner, Patrick.”

Confused silence follows while Patrick eyes him with suspicion, as if he was awaiting some sort of punchline. But Pete has said his part and meant every word of it. That slowly dawns on both of them, and Patrick shakes his head before he speaks up again.

“Why are you asking _me_ of all people?”

Pete grins, and despite his best efforts, he can’t stop wagging his tail just a tiny bit. “Because I believe in you.”

“Shouldn’t that be what _I_ say to _you_?” Patrick scoffs as he shakes his head again. “I don’t get you, puppy.”

“Look, we may have had our differences, but… You’re a good guy, which is rare in this industry. You took some no-names like us and you did your best work for my band’s album.”

“I believe that’s what I’m paid to do,” Patrick intervenes; it’s Pete’s part to scoff now.

“You saw something in us, and you did everything you could to make this album into something great. Something special. You didn’t have to take all that time and effort and money.”

Patrick cocks his head. “I’m _always_ doing my best work.”

This isn’t going anywhere. Pete decides to try a new argument.

“I’m out there, Patrick. I’m meeting people, and look at my band, look at the Panic kids – I have a good eye for talent. I know where to find it. And I’m willing to hand it all off to you.”

“Right,” deer boy says with clear disbelief. “Why would you do that?”

Pete shrugs. “I said I had an eye for finding talent, not for everything that comes afterwards. The actual music, well, that part I’ll need to leave up to someone else. And you’re the only one I’d trust. I go and find you the hottest new bands, and I’ll take care of all the PR and promos and whatever else is necessary to get them out there. And you’ll get to work with them, get to shape the new talent of the industry all by yourself. How does that sound?”

With open arms and his tail still wagging excitedly, Pete stares at deer boy with big puppy eyes and the highest hopes. All or nothing, and Pete wants everything.

 

Patrick looks less impressed. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and lets out a long sigh. The silence that follows is thoroughly uncomfortable and filled with anticipation and anxiety. Big black eyes stare back at Pete, who feels like he’s about to run up the walls if the tension gets any higher. Hemmy, no longer sleepy and now bored with the conversation and lack of attention, lets out a little bark. Due to a lack of anything better to do – and the cold, heavy anxiety that pours into Pete’s stomach – Pete picks him up, runs his fingers through soft fur as he waits for an answer from his deer boy.

Finally, Patrick speaks up. “You’re one of the weirdest fucking guy I’ve met in my life. You’re loud, brash, and you’re an absolutely entitled ass. You waltz in with such a demand and just expect me to say yes?”

Hm, that’s not how Pete is seeing this at all. Has deer boy missed the part about all the great opportunities he’s being granted as well? Pete clears his throat. “Uh, kinda?”

“Go and waggle your tail even harder then, puppy.” Patrick takes a deep breath that sounds almost like a groan. “Because… You’re right. And I’m in.”

A cry of victory escapes Pete’s mouth, and he almost drops Hemmy while he tries to hold out his hand to Patrick, who seems confused at first, before he shakes it. That has to be enough professionality for Pete, who takes a deep breath and tries to sort out his thoughts. He wants to hug someone, but doubts that deer boy is up for that, so he just hugs Hemmy tighter while babbling excitedly about future plans, merch ideas, and his gratitude. Patrick listens politely, tells him who will handle the legal side of the business, and that no, he’s not interested in designing a shirt for Pete, that’s not really his style.

 

When Pete is done babbling and listening to the boring legal side of their arrangement, silence settles again. It makes him nervous; Pete doesn’t like silence. Hemmy barks again to remind his owner that he’s bored; just as Pete is about to excuse himself, Patrick hesitates, then lets out a small sigh. “I shed them.”

Confused, Pete forgets his polite exit. “You – what?”

“Your question earlier. About the antlers.” Patrick points to his head. “I shed them once a year. They grow back to full size, but… It’ll take a while.”

That’s weird. Pete stares at the two tiny fuzzy stumps peeking out of the knitted fabric of Patrick’s hat. “I didn’t know,” he confesses a little embarrassed. “I just thought they were permanent. Like horns?”

Patrick laughs, which sounds… Strangely adorable. Has Pete ever heard him laugh before? He’s sure he hasn’t. Which suddenly seems sad, like they’ve both missed out. “Oh God, no. No. Thankfully, they aren’t.”

“Can I touch?” The question is out of Pete’s mouth before he has any time to overthink it. That’s how it usually is, but right now, Pete curses his impulsiveness. He tries to mask his insecurity with a grin; that always works. “The fuzzy part, I mean… I’m just curious.”

“You really _are_ weird. First you accuse me of wanting to murder you with my antlers, and now you can’t wait to get into my personal space?” Patrick presses his lips together as he impulsively reaches for his antler stubs, almost knocking off his hat in the process. “And it’s not _fuzz_ . It’s _velvet_ , and it’s the protective layer during their growth.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Pete says with more sincerity than he thought was possible. “As you can see, I still have a lot to learn about deer boys and how they work.”

Patrick glares at him. “Do you ever know when to shut up?”

Pete’s grin just widens. “No.”

Another sigh comes over Patrick’s lips, and he looks away. His huge eyes don’t look too bad when they’re turned downwards, overshadowed by the long lashes. It could give Pete ideas.  

“Just – fine. Go ahead, touch them. But don’t you fucking dare try to pull them, because I swear, in that case, I won’t hesitate to hit you.”

That’s not Pete’s intent at all, so he reaches out with care, gently brushes over the fuzz – wait, what did Patrick call it? Fine, over the _velvet_ – with his fingertips. It feels surprisingly warm and so organic. Alive. Like a real body part, not some strange mutated weapons. The antlers’ small size doesn’t hurt either; they look almost cute. It’s still _weird_ , but… Maybe not in a bad way.

Patrick’s ears twitch a little. “No _stump_ puns?” He asks, sounding almost surprised.

“Even I won’t stoop that low,” Pete mumbles in response. Is that what Patrick thinks of him? That all Pete’s reaction could be to willingly hurt him? It gives Pete a guilty conscience, which he is not used to. Where did all his fear and suspicion go? Pete furrows his brows a little as he takes the stub into his hand, careful not to pull, careful not to hurt Patrick. Wait. Him, _Pete_ , afraid of hurting the deer boy? What _is_ this?

“You done?” Patrick interrupts his train of thoughts, the usual defensiveness in his voice. But there’s a hint of pink on his cheeks, and his narrowed eyes can’t really convey the stoicism he pretends to have. In the bright daylight of the office and up close, Patrick’s eyes look less dark than usual, pupils constricted just enough to reveal more of the baby blue iris around them. When did they lose their intimidating aura? Has Pete just gotten too used to looking at deer boy’s features?

Pete nods, and withdraws his hand. “Pretty cool,” he says as casually as possible, “you could teach Brendon a lesson or two about how to look graceful with a giant pile of bones on your head. The kid is helpless, we can’t let him go on stage like this.”

Pete tells himself it’s a good thing. He’s about to do business with Patrick, it would really be hindersome to continue the way they used to treat each other in the studio. No, there’s no need to be afraid. Then why is a new, strange fear building up in Pete, one that has nothing to do with being gutted by giant antlers, and everything with the way Patrick smiles at him?

“You can put him in all the terrible shirts you want, and I’ll deal with getting their album done as soon as we got the contracts settled. How does that sound?”

“Fantastic,” Pete answers in all honesty, and he can’t help but waggle his tail again. Because he’s done successful business with his deer boy. Nothing more.

It’s Patrick’s turn to grin, white teeth framed by pink and black lips. Pete can’t remember when he’s seen deer boy so relaxed. Certainly not at work. “Do you have any other plans for your little band of protegeés so far?”

 

Oh, does Pete ever have plans. Encouraged by the friendly face and the excitement over everything still bubbling in his chest, Pete can’t help but chatter away.

 

“I’m taking them to our next music video shoot. We’re doing vampires – fuck, you know how awesome that will be? Gabe and I have it all planned out, the costumes, the story, ordered tons of fake blood – anyway, we’ll get the kids to play some of our rivaling vampire gang.” Pete stops for a second, grins to himself as he reminds himself of all the great plans he has for the A Little Less 16 Candles video. “Actually, we have so many people showing up for guest appearances, we invited all the cool artists that worked with us so far!” Pete stops himself again as one particular artist comes to mind that could be of interest to deer boy. “Hey, Travie will be there too. Can you fucking imagine, me and Travie McCoy working together? Oh, yeah, I guess that’s not as impressive to you as it is to me, but still. Totally feels like we made it! Fuck, it’s gonna be so much fun with everyone! We’ll squirt some fake blood on each other, dress up, and just have a fucking amazing time. Can you imagine?”

When he’ done talking, Pete looks at Patrick with expectant eyes.

But it seems the mood has suddenly shifted.

Deer boy doesn’t look excited. Instead, he’s crossed his arms over his chest, lips pressed shut tightly. The small bits of blue in Patrick’s eyes look ice cold.

Pete stops wagging his tail and feels his ears droop.

Maybe he has talked too much? Was too overwhelming? Misinterpreted friendly small talk for an invitation for friendship?

Patrick’s words and voice are polite, and as cold as the stare he’s sending Pete. “Looks like you’re pretty busy, so… I’m not going to hold you up. Keep me in touch over work and any other bands that catch your interest.”

Taken aback by the abrupt change, Pete can just nod. Well, apparently, he’s said more than enough already.

“Ah, and your next album…” Patrick clears his throat. “Will you come back to me for that? I think your band and I did a pretty good job together.”

Patrick said yes to working together, nothing more. Nothing more.

 

The band. A Job. Money. Fame. They aren’t here for more. Then why does Pete feel so disappointed?

 

“Sure,” he says nonetheless, forgetting he ever had his doubts. “I’m sure I’m speaking for everyone when I agree. I’ll… I’ll be in touch about that.”

Patrick smiles politely. It looks nothing like the teeth-framing honest grin from before. “Great.”

 

 _Great_. Of course it’s great. Great music, great money, great publicity for all of them.

Another handshake for a polite, professional goodbye that feels awkward and out of place for the both of them; Patrick bows down, pets Hemingway as a goodbye. “He’s such a good boy,” he says softly, and Pete feels angry over that – Hemmy did nothing, he just sat on the floor or his lap and looked cute. Why does _Hemmy_ get the nice words and friendly affections from deer boy?! That’s not fair.

 

They part ways, and Pete finds himself outside of Patrick’s office, door closed behind him, the traitorous greedy puppy that stole his deer boy’s heart pressed close to his chest. Pete sighs, and kisses an apology into Hemmy’s soft fur. It’s not the doggie’s fault that his owner is an idiot.

Out of nowhere, Vicky emerges, gracious and silent like her feline counterpart. Black ears perked up and thoughtful feline eyes on Pete, she approaches the two canines with a Cheshire cat grin on her lips. If Pete were more attentive, he would wonder if her sudden appearance is really a coincidence.

“Hey there, famous little guy,” she greets him, and Pete doesn’t even have the energy to be offended by the belittling of his size. “Just out of the meeting with the boss, right? How did it go?”

She looks expectant, like she wants to hear the specifics. Why the hell Vicky would care, Pete doesn’t know. And he’s not in the mood to find out either. He wants to go home, lay his head in Gabe’s lap, make dick jokes with Joe, plan the video shoot, update his blog. Anything that doesn’t involve standing around in this stupid studio in front of a stupid stag’s office.

 

“Great,” Pete answers mechanically, “it went _great_.”

 

Despite knowing he’s being rude, Pete turns on his heels, and leaves Vicky standing there with a confused expression on her face.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!~ Leave a little comment to let me know what you think will happen next between these two dorks!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, everyone! I apologize for the long wait, but I was on vacation and then life got in the way. But I'm back to regular updates! And today, I can present you the big artwork I promised, plus a new chapter - enjoy!

 

 

 

 

Once Pete has left the room, Patrick sinks back into his chair. Somehow, this seems to become a pattern between them.

 

Anger and despair rage in his heart, mixed with disappointment and a strange sense of jealousy. Patrick doesn’t know why. Most of their talk actually went fine, Pete’s proposal sounded great, and as juvenile as puppy guy seems, he still has a head for business, that much Patrick is sure of.

Why the rage? Why the anger? Why is his heart beating faster than it should?!

Patrick clenches his hands into fists. He’s an idiot, such an idiot. Just because Pete is living the life of a rock star – a life Patrick willingly helped build by equipping him with great music – and makes friends with everyone, well… that doesn’t mean Pete has magically changed his opinion about _deer boys_.

Pete’s happy face. Pete’s smile, pretty ears perked up, the excited way he waggled his tail as he told Patrick about the shoot for the music video. He can imagine it, Pete and Gabe on set, loving the spotlight. Pete and Gabe in front of the camera, adored by everyone. Pete and Gabe behind the closed door of the broom closet, both –

Patrick shakes his head. Where do these terrible images come from? It’s none of his business anyway. Pete can screw whoever he wants. According to the trashy gossip blogs and magazines that Patrick totally only reads out of pure boredom and vile curiosity, Pete does _exactly_ that. Takes home a pretty new face after every concert, leaves a trail of broken hearts all over the country, finds all too willing substitutes when Gabe isn’t there to screw him - whatever. Whatever.

Something else, Patrick needs to think of something else, someone else. But his mind isn’t done taunting him. Patrick can see it; everyone gathered on set, having fun. Being friends. Being normal fucking human beings, not weird, grumpy little shut-ins. Patrick sighs, unclenches his fists to massage his temples. Travie is there, no doubt adored by everyone, no doubt amusing himself by playing along with Fall Out Boy’s antics. Having all the kinds of fun that Patrick can never offer him. Who else will be there, caught up in the band’s newest scheme for weird music videos, laughing as they’re put into weird costumes, being sociable, being… Just being everything Patrick _isn’t_. Never will be. Patrick presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids until he sees bright shapes exploding behind them. His fingers trace over his nose, press against his lips. His antlers weight him down. Everything hurts.

All it took was a cute dog and some stupid excitement and suddenly Patrick forgot who he is. The _deer boy_. Patrick strokes over his velvet-covered antlers, mortified by how easily he was persuaded to have his personal space intruded like that. Pete touched him. And Pete didn’t even pet him gently like he did with Hemmy, no, Patrick just got touched like some strange exotic animal at the zoo. Like someone to be afraid of. Like a freak show. Like – like every other bad word Patrick has ever been called.

All because of some stupid high school-tier crush on a pretty puppy guy.

Pure shame floods Patrick when he thinks back to his parting words to Pete. _Will you come back to me?_ How much more pathetic could he get? How much more desperate and dumb is one person allowed to be?!

 

Vicky’s voice interrupts his train of thoughts. “Care to explain, Patrick?”

“Explain?” Patrick repeats slightly confused as he sits up in his chair, attempting to look a little less pathetic than he feels.

Vicky graciously walks over to his desk, arms crossed, her tail swinging from left to right. Impatient. Waiting for her desired prey. And her desired prey is an answer from Patrick. “Just met Pete out there. He didn’t seem too happy. He said your meeting went _great_ , which is just a synonym for shitty. Maybe you’d like to shed some light on the situation? And don’t you dare try to _great_ me, too.”

“There isn’t much to say,” Patrick replies defensively. “He proposed to have me involved in his new label. Wants me to produce the new talent he finds. I agreed. We didn’t fight or anything.” Technically, that’s not a lie. There was no fight. No insults. No screaming. Pete has learned to be more discreet about putting Patrick into his place.

It’s still not enough to satisfy Vicky’s curiosity. She keeps staring at Patrick, tail swinging left to right. Patrick liked it better when she bribed him with sweets to get him to talk. “How did you screw this up then?”

“I didn’t screw anything up!” Patrick’s anger shows through, he’s starting to raise his voice, glares at Vicky from under the brim of his hat. “I didn’t do anything – no, wrong, I did _everything_ Pete wanted from me, and he should be fucking grateful. And you should just leave me alone about him for once! I can handle myself just fine!”

Why would she assume he was the one to ruin things!? That’s so unfair. Pete is the brash, bratty little puppy guy who waltzed into Patrick’s office like the world belongs to him. Pete is the one who rubs being a rock star under Patrick’s ugly black nose, taunting him, teasing him. Pete is the one who’s being dishonest, pretending they’re friends when really, he’s just interested in Patrick’s connection and talent, and Pete is the one who just keeps riling him up, and Pete -

“You’re being ridiculous,” Vicky says in a low voice. “And I don’t care about you and the puppy’s childish way of fighting, but you better fix this, Patrick.” It’s very clear that this no longer just means the puppy situation, but his friendship with Vicky as well. The door slams shut behind her, and Patrick feels an entirely new kind of embarrassment and personal failure. At least, no one is there to see him wipe away the angry tears.

 

 

Patrick doesn’t see Vicky all day, which only increases his guilty conscience. Sure, he has a temper once in a while, but Patrick is never this unfair and hurtful. Especially towards Vicky, who hasn’t done anything wrong. The one person who wants to help, and Patrick pushes her away. Great, just fantastic. Patrick sighs as his personal failures keep replaying before his inner eye. First, he managed to make a complete fool out of himself in front of Travie, and now this… Patrick sighs again as he leaves the studio at the end of the day with a pretty bad recollection of the events today. When he turns on the car radio, _Dance, Dance_ is playing. Patrick shuts it off, and drives in silence.

At home, the glow of the laptop screen illuminates Patrick’s face. Pete is just one click away. It’s tempting to check on the Cobra Cam, just to see… Instead, Patrick orders an Italian 101 CD, and a mixed bag of delicious looking Italian tartufo pralines. Sometimes, the internet can be his friend.

 

Vicky remains elusive the next day as well, which isn’t like her at all. Patrick feels terrible, especially when the schedule for next week drops into his email inbox, announcing that Panic! At The Disco has their studio time booked already. Patrick sulks over his breakfast, alone. The artificial flavor of his donut frosting tastes like loneliness.

On his drive home, Patrick now listens to the Italian language course. He always loved learning new languages, and it keeps his mind away from music for a while. It keeps his thought away from certain musicians, more specifically. As he drives into his garage, a plan has formed in his head, right next to the conjugation of verbs in the present tenses and the correct pronunciation of various delicious-sounding dishes.

 

Next day at lunch, Vicky and he are at the newly-opened Italian place nearby that Patrick has been meaning to go to for a while. Okay, maybe it’s not exactly new, and maybe the while is a really long while, but whatever. They’re here now. Patrick is making an effort. Given how he has been behaving, it’s about time.

“I’m so sorry,” Patrick mumbles, his fingers nervously playing with the napkin, ears twitching a little. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Lately I’ve been so stressed, and… I’m sorry for taking that out on you.”

“You’re working too much, Patrick.” Vicky doesn’t look up from the menu. She hasn’t accepted or even acknowledged his apology. Dread fills Patrick’s chest. “You have to fucking relax once in a while.”

“I’m relaxing now,” Patrick says defensively, although he doesn’t feel very relaxed at all.

“I assume you’re paying?” Vicky says with an innocent smile, as innocent as it can be with a row of sharp fangs and the threat in her eyes.

Patrick nods. Given how he’s been behaving, he owes Vicky big time.

The waiter comes over to take their order; his gaze lingers a little too long on Vicky, who rewards the unwanted attention with another menacing, teeth-revealing grin once she has ordered. After one look at Patrick’s antlers, judgement masked by a professional smile, the waiter recommends him the salad. Patrick orders the steak, relishing in the waiter’s surprise as he pronounces _bistecca alla griglia_ perfectly; he eyes the waiter’s shiny pair of pretty Pointer ears resentfully as the guy walks away.

“So, you’re really doing business with the puppy boy now?” Vicky asks curiously as she clinks her nails against her water glass. They’re sharp, painted blood red, beautiful and enticingly dangerous just like the rest of her. Nothing like Patrick’s stubs.

Patrick shrugs, tries to play it down. “I am. Although I guess I’m doing less business with _him_ , and more business with the bands he finds me.”

From the raised eyebrow he gets, it seems like Vicky doesn’t believe his (terrible) act for one second. Her next question is as cruel as her menacing teeth. “Why don’t you just admit you like him?”

Patrick almost chokes on his water. When he has calmed down, the food is placed in front of them, giving him a few more precious seconds to regain his composure. He responds with a graceful _grazie mille_ to the waiter’s _buon appettito_ , which causes the guy to narrow his eyes ever so slightly. What’s his problem? Why does Patrick keep having bad luck with the dog crowd?

“Answer, Patrick.” A subtle kick to his shin brings him back to the present. Vicky might be dressed professionally, but that doesn’t mean she can’t play dirty. And her heels hurt.

Patrick grabs his knife and fork. The meat looks delicious, and so does Vicky’s pasta. “He’s just a cute guy. That’s all.”

“So you _do_ like him.” Vicky twirls her pasta with her fork, looks at him with raised eyebrows again. Since when is it Patrick’s turn to pay for the food she uses to bribe him? Either way, his hesitance is short-lived as he reaches for the pasta-loaded fork that Vicky is now holding out to him. It tastes absolutely delicious.

“I don’t. Not really. He keeps pissing me off,” Patrick explains as he cuts off a piece of meat for Vicky to taste.

“Only because you care about him!” With triumph, Vicky chews on the perfectly grilled steak, victory in her eyes.

Patrick mumbles some vague objections under his breath, before the next bite of steak relieves him from having to speak for a moment. “I like his band, and I like what he told me about his plans for the label,” he says eventually, “and I think we work well together. Well, _now_. It took us a while, but still. And that’s it.”

Vicky chews on her pasta, takes her time to swallow and wipe her mouth with the napkin. Patrick nervously scratches his antlers when she speaks up again, her voice a perfect imitation of innocence. “Then why are you so pissed?”

Patrick groans in frustration. Why can’t Vicky just leave him alone? The less attention he brings to this, the less he talks about it, the less it is real. “It’s nothing, okay?” After taking another sip of water, Patrick decides it might be best to discreetly change the subject. “It’s just… Not always easy to see my acts having fun doing all the things I could never see myself doing. I’m happy being a producer, but… Maybe I’m limiting myself too much?”

 

Vicky actually breaks out in a laugh. Patrick glares at her, which does nothing to stop her from laughing behind her napkin. The waiter sends them a weird look. Stupid Italian Pointer. Patrick subtly brushes over his antlers, and the guy turns away. Stupid, stupid puppies.

When she’s done laughing, Vicky wipes the corner of her eyes with the napkin, the glow of her feline eyes lingering on her friend. “Patrick, this one lunch won’t be enough to even scratch the surface of how much you limit yourself. I’ve been telling you for _years_.”

Patrick stares at his food as he contemplates Vicky’s words. Pages upon pages of legal NDAs flash before his eyes. Awards he never personally accepted on stage. Concerts and parties he’s missed. Travie’s repeated request to join him on stage for once so that Patrick can sing his part live; or to at least reveal himself as the featured artist. Vicky’s many, many objections to his life as a shut-in, hidden genius.

He thinks of Fall Out Boy on the music set, their fun caught on the Cobra Cam. Thinks about big stages, cheering audiences. Sweat and adrenaline, the people singing along to his music, being part of a team. Golden inked skin under bright spotlight, a pair of black Labrador Retriever ears and a wagging tail.

But then he thinks of big antlers, of people talking and gossiping behind his back, of disapproving looks and unflattering pictures and unkind articles about cryptid deer boys; with his luck, they’d probably be right next to the one detailing Pete’s newest escapades.

Sensing that she won’t make a major breakthrough here today, Vicky just softly shakes her head and says: “Get over yourself, Stump. Have some fun with your puppy. And sort out your love life. You could do both in one go!”

“He’s not mine, and there’s no love life to sort out with him. Just business contracts and the news about their newest album, and that’s it.”

“If you say so,” Vicky sighs, “again, I’ll be here for you when you’re ready to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Patrick glares at her again, although he feels like it isn’t half as threatening as it should be. Vicky just sighs again, then smiles as she pushes her plate towards Patrick. He accepts the peace offering of pasta, traded for another bite of his steak.

 

Vicky tilts her head, ears raised up. “Think your puppies would be up to letting me direct one of their videos?”

The question comes a little unexpected. Patrick scratches his antlers again. “I don’t know… Why, you interested?”

“You know I am,” Vicky answers with an eyeroll. It’s true, she’s had her fair share of work in the film industry, though it’s mostly been small work. It’s been a while since he’s heard Vicky expressing any interest into going back. Well, then again, it’s been a while since they sat down and just _talked_. “Just to get my foot back into the door. I like my job, but… I miss the creative part of my life.”

Patrick nods, although fear floods him. He likes Vicky. He likes working with Vicky. As much as he wishes her success in every career she chooses, a small part of him remains jealous.

“ _Words_ , Patrick,” Vicky interjects as she leans over the table to poke against Patrick’s freckled forehead. “You have to talk to me, idiot. I’m your friend, but I can’t read your thoughts.”

With a sigh, Patrick admits: “I know your current job lacks creativity, and I know how goddamn talented you are, and I want everyone else to know that, too. I just… Don’t wanna lose you.”

“You wouldn’t,” Vicky reassures him with a chuckle. She leans over the table again, this time, to pat Patrick’s head. “I’ll always be your friend, always. And it’s still a long shot. If I ever actually get a decent gig and have to quit my job, I’ll promise to find you a good replacement for me myself.”

That does relieve the fear a little. Patrick smiles as he offers her his last piece of steak. “Puppy said the band would be back for the next album,” he says as Vicky wolves down the meat, “I’ll ask the band if they’re up for it.” Patrick can’t help but scoff, although the fondness in his voice betrays the harsh words. “They seem to be up for pretty much _anything_. As long as it involves something extravagant and attention-grabbing. And with neon. And terrible outfits.”

Vicky shrugs, and wipes over her mouth. “I think I can do that.”

 

Once their plates are empty, their doggie waiter clears their table, and leaves the dessert menu. He’s a lot less flirty with Vicky now, who doesn’t care at all. Patrick wishes he had her confidence sometimes.

“Should I take the tiramisú?” Patrick stares helplessly at the dessert menu. “But I heard the panna cotta con Frutti di bosco is very good, too…”

“I get it, Patrick. You listened to your Italian 101 CD twice, and now you can flaunt your excellent language skills in my face.” The accusing words are belied by Vicky’s friendly smile, and the soft look in her feline eyes. She knows Patrick well enough not to be annoyed by his occasional need to be just a little bit pretentious, and maybe just a little bit of a show-off. Or at least, that’s what Patrick hopes; he still squirms in his seat, feels the copper of his freckles being overshadowed by an embarrassed blush. A hand on his own stops the dawn of worries.

“How about we order both, and just split it? That way, we can get a taste of both.” Vicky squeezes his hand and licks over her white canine teeth in anticipation.

With a laugh, Patrick squeezes back, and nods. Vicky knows him too well. “You’re a true friend.”

Vicky shrugs. “Well, you’re paying, Stump.”

Patrick scowls at her, which makes her grin, sharp teeth not a threat, but a welcome reassurance of friendship. She rubs her thumb over the back of Patrick’s hand, bows her head a little. “Hey. Apology accepted, okay? We’re fine. But I’ll keep calling you out on your bullshit, dear. Someone has to.”

“Thanks,” Patrick mumbles, scowl now traded for a smile as well.

Both the tiramisu and panna cotta taste amazing, but what’s even better is that warm feeling in Patrick’s chest. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, a change of scenery was in need. A new pair of antlers, a new cycle of growth, a fresh start to abandon old mistakes. No studio walls, no stupid puppy faces, no pretty lead singers fumbling around with beautiful bassists. Just friendship, and professional connections. From the corner of his eye, he sees their waiter, still upholding the professionality save for his raised ears. He doesn’t know that Patrick isn’t interested in women, and that Vicky most certainly isn’t interested in Patrick either. But Patrick knows it’s still somewhat satisfying to send the doggie waiter an innocuous smile as he steals a bite of delicious, delicious tiramisu from Vicky’s plate.

“Remind me to drag you here again,” Vicky says between two bites of sweets, “I’ll make you pay for another round of fancy Italian desserts.”

Patrick smiles to himself as he puts another spoonful of heavenly berry-drenched panna cotta con Frutta di bosco into his mouth.

That Italian language course CD totally paid off.

 

 

The work with the Panic kids is going surprisingly well. They’re all young and inexperienced and if Pete is to be believed, haven’t even played on a proper stage yet. Not Patrick’s problem though. He’s their producer, and if they actually manage to give a good performance on stage is someone else’s worry. All Patrick knows is that the kids will have some damn fine music to play up there.

The Panic! kids seem to adapt quite easily, and their inexperience only means it’s easier for Patrick to subtly mold them into a band that he can easily work with. By the second week, studio time is going great, and Brendon shows up in custom-made Sons of Bitches merchandise already. Patrick knows Pete has a matching _"Pete! At The Disco"_ shirt, has seen it being worn several times, damnit, he just keeps up for professional reason, okay? It’s Patrick’s money at stake here too.

By the end of the second week, Brendon lingers in the studio a little longer, watches as Patrick explains some of the technical details on screen to him, although he seems preoccupied with something else. Eventually, Patrick settles for silence, just absent-mindedly scratches his antlers.

 

“You haven’t said anything yet.”

Patrick looks up in surprise. Brendon stares at him, head tilted, irritation and insecurity in his posture.

“What am I supposed to say?” That’s only half-true, Patrick has a thing or two to say about the shirt the kid’s wearing, all black save for the big golden letters spelling “ _You Goat Me!_ ” But that’s Pete’s problem, not his. Patrick only signed up for the music.

“What everyone else says, of course.” Brendon shrugs, then points at his horns. “Goat boy. Son of the Devil. Watch our horns, witch kid. Creepy.” Brendon shrugs again. “Well, anything with devil or creepy is the most popular. But, you get it.”

Slowly, Patrick turns to him, discarding his headphones while absent-mindedly scratching his antlers again. “Why would I say any of that, Brendon?”

Brendon scoffs, though it doesn’t quite mask the hurt in his gold-brown eyes. “Everyone does.”

“Well, I’m not everyone.” Patrick furrows his brows as he takes another look at the kid. Brendon’s lips are pressed together, he’s staring at the floor, hunched over in his seat. Great. Seems like they won’t get any work done anyway; at least not music, and Patrick certainly isn’t paid to handle the emotional baggage of the band, too.

“What about Pete? You call him puppy.”

Taken by surprise, Patrick leans back into his chair, and crosses his arms defensively. “Well, he called me deer boy first!”

Brendon quirks an eyebrow as his gaze flickers over Patrick’s antlers and face. “But you _are_ a deer boy, aren’t you?”

“I’m neither of these things,” Patrick says miffed, automatically reaching out to stroke over his antlers. They’re almost at full size now, still protected by the smooth velvet, which is why they keep itching.  They’re eager to be shown off to the world. “First off, I’m a _stag_. And also, a grown man, not a _boy_.”

After another disbelieving look, Brendon just shakes his head. “You’re weird.”

“Says the one wearing puppy’s terrible shirts?” Patrick immediately regrets everything, but biting his lip hard enough to be painful still doesn’t take back the words. Instead, he sighs, ignoring Brendon’s smug grin. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“That you keep calling him puppy, or that you said his shirts look terrible?” Brendon lovingly tugs at the soft-looking fabric of his shirt. “I like them.”

Of course he does, but this time, Patrick is smart enough to keep quiet. “Seriously, I’ll sue you,” he growls, semi-serious and half-relieved when Brendon’s grin just widens as he nods.

 

Patrick takes a deep sigh. “I don’t care what others say about you. I would never make fun of you, ever. That clear?” The kid firmly nods; good. Patrick feels a little proud that he finally didn’t screw anything up by talking for a change. He gestures towards himself with a self-deprecating frown. “And look at me. I’m the last person who gets to judge people’s appearances.”

Brendon shakes his head at that. Is that disagreement? That’s… Wait, he’s supposed to now, supposed to say yes, someone looking like a deer boy shouldn’t judge people. Before Patrick can tell him so, Brendon points at his antlers. “Those things would make a killer stage show. You could spray paint them golden. Neon pink! Put some fairy lights on them! Can you imagine?”

“I’d rather not,” Patrick says, taken aback by the lack of agreement, the total absence of fear, ridicule, or pity for Patrick’s looks.

“Thanks for the advice,” Brendon says when they’re done. “Though it would really be more believable if you didn’t make me sign like a hundred pages of legal bullshit just to keep those own head trophies of yours out sight.”

“What I do is totally different,” Patrick answers defensively, “I’m the producer, not lead singer of a band. I don’t need to be seen. And I just like my privacy.” It’s what he’s told himself time and time again, then why does this little goat kid suddenly make it sound so – wrong?

No, it can’t be. What does a kid like Brendon know? He’s never even really been on a goddamn _stage,_ how would he know what it’s like? What does he know about fame and success, about industry gossip, about fucking _anything_?!

Patrick shakes his head. “Just get you and that dumb shirt of yours out of my sight.”

Brendon grins, once more lovingly stroking over his shirt, then leaves Patrick alone with the last touch-ups on the track, and a weird feeling settling in his stomach.

 

 

That same weird feeling comes up again when Pete’s sitting in Patrick’s office the next week, bursting with bad fashion choices, pent-up energy, and tons of news.

“European tour is next, we’re getting ready in just a few days! Can you believe it? We’re gonnal jet around the fucking world!” Pete bounces his leg, tail wagging as he babbles about what countries they’re going to, their tight schedule, the real hotel rooms their tour manager has booked them.

Patrick nods politely, tries not to judge Pete’s ensemble of clothes. Sons Of Bitches is taking off, or so Patrick has heard from Pete (and confirmed later on the internet, just out of curiosity, just to see if the puppy isn’t merely bragging), and the selection of bad clothes has widened tremendously. Neon sneakers and ripped jeans tight enough to make Patrick bit his lip, held up by a black belt with the bartskull as a belt buckle. As if that stupid tattoo on Pete’s groin wasn’t enough (it’s not Patrick’s fault he knows it’s there, _Pete_ is the one who constantly decides to be shirtless in public, really, Patrick didn’t _mean_ to notice). Pete’s wearing that damn Sons Of Bitches hoodie again, blood-red and with a golden print, an eyesore topped with black faux fur trimming the sleeve cuffs. The label’s acronym SOB is printed on the front of the brightly colored purple baseball cap that Pete is wearing (suspiciously looking like that cap Patrick has seen Gabe wearing all the time), and pretty accurately predicts that Patrick feels like crying when seeing this questionable outfits.

“You gotta give me your cell number, Patrick. I’m tired of having to beg my way to your office, where, by the way, you rarely even are.”

“Some may disagree with that,” Patrick mumbles under his breath as he thinks back to what Vicky said, and hasn’t taken back so far. He scratches his antlers; damn things won’t stop itching. Pete looks a little irritated, but knows better than to make a comment. Good. Patrick isn’t in the mood for his bullshit fear and suspicion of anything that grows out of people’s heads.

Instead, Pete rolls his eyes, then pulls out his sidekick from the depths of his hoodie, holds it out to Patrick with expectant puppy eyes. It’s for business, right? That’s what Patrick tells himself as he takes the phone and programs his number into it. He saves it under _Patrick Stump_ , just in case Pete picks up another Patrick while in Europe, and just to make sure he doesn’t end up named _deer boy_ in Pete Wentz’s stupid sidekick.

When he’s done, Patrick hands it back, and his heart doesn’t skip the least bit when his fingers brush over Pete’s. This is getting pathetic. He needs to get laid. Pete gets plenty of laid, be it Gabe or whomever he picks up, so why shouldn’t Patrick?

For a moment, there’s silence between them. Pete’s ears are perked up, and he looks like he wants to say something.

Absent-mindedly, Patrick scratches his antlers again. When he lowers his hand, there’s blood on it.

Pete _screams_.

 

 

Ten minutes later, they both sit in Patrick’s office, joined by a very miffed looking Vicky.

“You’re not paying me enough to deal with this,” she mumbles under her breath as she hands Patrick another tissue. The blood keeps flowing, and Patrick feels strips of the velvet parting from the bones beneath. Red is on his hands, red is on his jacket, red is on the two tissues he already bled through.

Pete on the other hand looks sickly pale, stares at the floor, ears pressed close to his head, tail between his legs. It would almost be comical, if it wasn’t for the sheer embarrassment and guilty conscience weighting on Patrick.

“I, uh. I wasn’t prepared for this to happen,” Pete mumbles weakly, runs his hand through his perfectly styled fringe. Meanwhile, strands of Patrick’s hair stick to his face, matted with dried blood. “I didn’t mean to freak out, just…”

With a deep sigh, Patrick presses the tissue closer to his antlers. It’s no use, there’s still velvet and blood left, but there’s already enough gross-looking flesh hanging down from the scarlet-tainted bones beneath.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Patrick mumbles, “it’s just… shedding. It’ll be over soon.”

Pete nods, although he still doesn’t look up. Which Patrick is very happy about, because he knows he looks like an absolute mess. Blood everywhere, staining his clothes, his skin, ugly smudges of dark red. Strips of velvety skin hanging down the blood-wet antlers, drip, drip, dripping more blood everywhere. Shame floods Patrick. He looks disgusting. Fearsome. He made Pete scream, made him feel terrified, and he’s sure that he’ll make Pete throw up within the next five minutes if he has to endure Patrick’s horrifying presence any longer. Stupid, stupid deer boy.

 

“This is enough for today.” Vicky steps up, hands Patrick another tissue. Thankfully, she is already familiar with the process of shedding, doesn’t even blink at the sight of scarlet bones and their blood-soaked owner. “Patrick, get your ass home. And Pete, why don’t you come back another time?”

There is nothing Patrick can do but agree. He needs to go home, needs some privacy, he needs a hot shower and he needs to get rid of the now useless velvet hanging from his antlers. He needs to scrub himself clean of flesh and blood, and then he needs to curl up in his bed, darkness, silence, sleep.

Mostly, he needs to forget the scared expression on Pete’s pretty puppy face, needs to forget the shame and embarrassment over having been seen like this, over making Pete feel afraid, over reminding Pete of what he is. The scary little deer boy.

Pete nods as well, finally find his speech again. “We’re leaving for Europe soon. Big tour. I… I’ll see you afterwards, I suppose.”

Right. The European tour. Coldness spreads in Patrick’s heart, tunes out the polite parting word that Vicky and Pete exchange. Patrick can’t even shake Pete’s hand, because his hand is full of blood and discarded skin. He waves a weak goodbye, watches Pete leave, but not before taking another frightened look at the mess on Patrick’s head.

Vicky comes over, opens her arms, and Patrick rests her head against her despite her blouse getting all dirty. He knows Vicky doesn’t care, and she is polite enough to ignore the small sobs; she just rubs his back, hugs him until it’s over.

“You’re right. I should get home,” Patrick whispers eventually, disguises one last sniffle behind a small cough. It’s kind of pathetic, or at least he feels it is, but Vicky just smiles. After Patrick has cleaned up the worst of the mess and grabbed another handful of tissues, Vicky slings an arm around his shoulder. She knows how to handle him without getting stabbed by his antlers. They walk to Patrick’s car together, where Vicky leans over him one last time, obviously full of worry.

“You need company?”

Patrick just shakes his head. Drops of red splatter all over the car.

“You gonna be alright?” She asks concerned, her panther ears raised, showing her worry.

“I will,” Patrick answers as he gets into his car, “eventually.”

Patrick doesn’t know how far away eventually is, but he hopes it will be soon. Though something tells him it won’t.

 

At home, Patrick heads for the bathroom. He ends up sitting in his shower, watching as the water flushes down the drain; red, pink, then clear. Antlers scrubbed clean of any velvet residue, now a flash of dusty white when Patrick looks into the foggy mirror. He leans closer, wipes the mirror clean with his hand. The sight of pale, freckled skin and big, dark eyes greet him. Black markings marring his face, too big pupils giving his glare an uncanny, creepy vibe. Golden eyelashes flutter as Patrick blinks, but the image in the mirror stays the same. A frightened, pudgy little stag with too big antlers, too big eyes, too many freckles, too much attitude, too much, too much, and all of it too wrong.

Rock stars like Pete jet around the world, and deer boys stay in their little forest. Handsome guys like Gabe and Pete win the hearts of the crowd, and Patrick’s own heart is best left alone. A group of cool dudes like Fall Out Boy is on TV and magazine covers and all over the internet, and Patrick stays in his own little corner. Beautiful bassists like Pete are rumored to enamor every starlet’s heart, while Patrick bleeds all over the floor, dead skin shedding from dead bones, beady eyes full of ridiculous tears as he turns away from the mirror. _Deer boy._

Patrick takes the next day off, glad that Vicky keeps her scolding to a minimum, and again declining her company. He doesn’t feel like seeing anyone. He just takes another bath, spends the day on the couch, watching TV. But his mind is racing, and Patrick feels restless. So what if he switches to MTV, he’s a producer, he needs to know what happens in the business. They’re showing the charts, and Patrick’s heart skips a beat. Fall Out Boy’s album made the number one spot, proudly sitting atop the charts. Pride fills him – another job well done, another album sold successfully – and he considers calling the band, congratulating them, imagines what it would be like to hear Pete be happy. Happy because of him, Patrick. Sort of, but still.

It’s only professional, right?

Patrick actually picks up the phone, professional, that’s all he’s being here. He gets ahold of the manager, who informs him the band is out for promo work. Patrick thanks him, then hangs up. Didn’t he and Pete exchange numbers?

No. No, they haven’t. Patrick freezes when he realizes only _he_ has given Pete his number. Not the other way around. So much for professionalism. So much for not being pathetic.

 

In the evening, Patrick lays on his bed, freshly-washed antlers scrubbed clean once more and resting on a nest of pillows, while his laptop rests in his lap. Patrick can’t resist checking the Cobra Cam, just one more time, just to see what vague “promo work” the band was up to.

 

Pete and Gabe in a tattoo studio. The young, hip tattoo artist gets his equipment ready while Pete reminds the audience of his promise – if the album goes to number one, he’d get a tattoo of Gabe’s choice.

 

It feels like a punch to Patrick’s stomach.

 

Gabe, dressed in a colorful shirt and a SOB cap in purple neon, holds up a picture of himself as a pudgy eight-year old. “It’s gonna be a cool tattoo!” He announces to the camera; Joe is somewhere in the background, laughing his ass off. A disapproving mumble makes it clear that Andy is holding the camera, clearly more comfortable if he’s not associated with this spectacle.

With growing nausea, Patrick watches as Pete’s leg gets prepared for the needlework. Pete is half-heartedly swearing, but he’s too much into this. Gabe claims he has a tattoo on his ankle, reveals a small puppy tattoo. “Because I’m also super into puppies,” he explains with a grin.

Patrick feels like throwing up.

Gabe talks excitedly while Pete suffers in the background, but the words barely reach Patrick’s mind. He gets “Pete will never abandon me” and “shows you can be rich and still a hot mess” and hears Pete laughing affectionately in the background.

 

Patrick _really_ feels like throwing up.

 

The finished tattoo is shown, and a cold hand clenches tight around Patrick’s heart. It’s the portrait of little Gabe, framed by the words “ _Gabey Baby made me go bad_ ”.

Gabe announces he will get a matching tattoo if their next album made it to gold, but Patrick isn’t listening anymore. He feels sick. He feels like crying. He feels utter disappointment in everything; mostly, in himself.

_Deer boy. Deer boy_. _Deer boy._

 

Fall Out Boy leaves for the European tour, and Patrick’s full-grown antlers proudly loom over his head, imposing, big branches of bones.

But the antlers are not the reason he feels a constant weight on his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Please consider leaving a little comment, it's what keeps me going!~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Back to more deertrick :) 
> 
> This chapter, as the art suggests, we will meet new people...! Let's see how that goes, shall we? 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for beta-reading and emotional support!~

 

 

 

 

Fall Out Boy is on tour, jetting around the world.

 

Pete loses track of time and space. There will be a dozen different countries, a dozen different cities, the same excited audience everywhere. They made it. They fucking made it.

They’re on the road, tour bus rolling over the dark, unfamiliar streets of a foreign country far away from home. Well, not so foreign, Pete is sure they’re still in the UK (where at least the language is similar), though this time, not in the tiny clubs they used to play, and not just as the supporting act.

With his friends around him, Pete doesn’t miss Chicago much; with Gabe laughing, Joe sampling international weed, and Andy always being up for a Halo match or going through international vegan snacks, it’s like Pete took a piece of home with him.

But it’s night, and none of them are awake. Pete feels lonely. Even Hemmy isn’t here to keep him company, the bulldog had to be left behind at his parent’s place for while Pete travels internationally. The faint glow of his sidekick’s screen is the only company Pete has, and it whispers an idea into Pete’s ear that almost makes him giggle with its absurdity. But loneliness is a bitch, and Pete heart throbs with something else he can’t quite put his finger on.

 

He doesn’t know what time it is back in Chicago, doesn’t even know what time it is here, but as luck will have it, Patrick picks up the phone.

“It’s been a while, Pete,” he says, not bothering with any greetings, “didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“You could’ve called first,” Pete objects, skipping the small talk as well.

“No, I couldn’t. You didn’t give me your number.” Is that anger in deer boy’s voice? Pete isn’t sure. “You’re in Europe, aren’t you? Why are you calling in, what I assume, must be the middle of the night for you?”

Oh, deer boy is smart. And attentive. “I’m insomniac, I don’t sleep,” Pete explains as he strokes over the faux fur lining his hoodie (pitch-black, with big cursive letters spelling _Pawndestine_ over his chest, a prototype for their newest design), wishing he had his pup with him. He’s buzzing with nervous energy, doesn’t know why he thought that calling Patrick of all people would help.

 

“Why don’t you like me?”

 

The line stays silent for what feels like an eternity. “Is that why you called me in the middle of the night?” Patrick says eventually, sounding like his usual grumpy self. Why isn’t he denying? Why isn’t he answering? Why can’t he just stop hiding for once?

Pete feels like fighting, and the nervous energy makes his tail twitch, makes him squirm, unoccupied hand balled into a fist.  

 

“Why don’t you like me?” Pete repeats, and somehow, he sounds less angry and more hurt. Stupid deer boys and their stupid sneers and their stupid grumpiness. There are many people that don’t like Pete, thousands of people on the internet trashing him, hundreds of message board threads and blogs dedicated to it, and dozens of reports that gossip about him and his band. What does one deer boy’s opinion matter? And yet, Pete can’t help but feel a desperate sense of curiosity.

“Well, I sure as hell know why you don’t like _me_ , puppy.” Patrick’s voice is sharp, a weapon ready to be drawn. “Tell me, do you like it, making fun of my antlers? You think you’re so much better just because you’re a cute rock star puppy, don’t you? Just because I don’t bow down to you and stroke your ego at any given second makes me unworthy of your time, right?”

“That’s not true!” Pete is close to shouting. His blood boils with anger at such an unfair accusation. “Why do you always assume the worst of me?!”

“I could ask you the same,” Patrick counters dryly, which leaves Pete speechless. He fumbles for a counter argument, for an angry jab, a witty answer that just escapes him. Because Patrick is right. Pete recalls his bad first impression before Patrick had so much as opened his mouth. Taking a step back even though Patrick has never hurt anyone with his antlers, ever. The obviously forced friendliness, then complaining when Patrick didn’t take that too well. Thinking all those mean things about Patrick’s appearance. Taking every word as a threat, aimed at him, Pete, the eternal victim.

“Look at us, fighting again. We’re _working_ together,” Patrick mumbles, “I thought we’d do better by now.”

 

Pete sighs. He doesn’t know what to say. His words enchant kids all over the world, they’re sung back to him every night by an excited audience, and woven into music, Patrick can work well with them. And yet, they fail Pete.

“I don’t think I’m better than you,” Pete finally says. “I’m not that stupid superficial asshole they make me out to be.”

The line stays silent; then, much to Pete’s surprise, Patrick laughs. It’s soft and small, a pretty melody delivered through the speaker. “You’re all bark and no bite, puppy.” It could be insulting, but Patrick’s voice is warm with the laugh, belying the harsh words. “It’s late. Where the hell are you, even?”

“Still in the UK.” Pete is anxious about leaving, about boarding another plane. He hates flying with a passion.

“Go to bed,” Patrick says sternly. “Say hi to everyone from me tomorrow.”

Desperation blooms in Pete’s chest. He doesn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t want this conversation to end. He doesn’t want – “Hey, deer boy, wait. I’m sorry,” Pete blurts out, he swears his tongue slipped, he didn’t mean to call Patrick that, he didn’t mean to, “I mean it, whatever I did to you, I’m sorry for it.”

“You’ll have to do better than ramble late-night apologies from over the phone halfway across the world.” With that, his deer boy hangs up.

 

 

“Who the fuck did you talk to last night?” Is the first thing Gabe asks him in the morning as he searches the kitchenette for a clean mug. Pete considers lying, but he’ll be spending the next few weeks in close proximity to Gabe. He will get his answer eventually, so Pete decides to just spare them all the games.

“Called the deer boy,” Pete answers nonchalantly as he taps his fingers on the counter. The coffee here tastes awful. Pete misses Starbucks, hopes they will get to one soon, real soon, he’s starving and hibernating and craving sugary-sweet caffeine. Lots of it. “He says hi to all of you.”

From the couch, he can hear Andy yell: “You’re not supposed to call him that!” As if that still made a difference. Joe just laughs, he’s probably not yet completely sober.

Gabe furrows his brows; he finds the least dirty mug, fills it up with the lukewarm coffee. “Why are you calling our producer in the middle of the fucking night?!”

Pete really wants some Starbucks, and less nosey friends. “He’s not just our producer, he works with my label now too,” he explains, as if that were an answer. “And it wasn’t the middle of the night for _him_.”

Andy gets up from the couch, approaches them with alert ears and a very serious expression. “I swear, Pete, if you piss him off _again_ , I’ll be real angry with you,” he says, flashes sharp white teeth and a warning in his feline eyes.

“Fuck you, Hurley,” Pete snarls, tail and ears raised to signal his own anger. “Why the fuck does everyone keep thinking that? I’m trying to be nice!”

“By referring to him as deer boy?” Andy counters, unimpressed by Pete’s outburst of anger.

“Can you all stop screaming?” Joe yells weakly, groaning as he sits up.

That’s Pete’s cue to leave the scene, despite the fact that Gabe looks like he wants to hold him back, and despite the fact there’s nowhere to go but to the bunks ten feet away. Fuming with spite, Pete draws the curtain close, curls up in the small bunk bed that smells like sweat and loneliness. A minute later, the mattress dips, as Gabe sits next to him. “What is it with you and the Stump dude?” He asks softly, stroking over Pete’s hair. Gabe can be all neon and screaming, and he still smells a little like the Irish whiskey they’ve all shared yesterday evening, but he knows when Pete needs something else.

“Deer boy doesn’t like me. Why doesn’t he _like_ me?” Pete pouts, but turns around to face Gabe.

Gabe raises his eyebrows. “Why do you care?”

Pete doesn’t know. Plenty of people don’t like him. Why does Patrick matter? “’m just tired of people only liking me for my looks or for being in a famous band,” he says instead. “I have more to offer, why can’t I make him see that?!”

“Just let it go, Pete. You’re obsessing over nothing.” Gabe sighs, and his ears twitch a little, unable to move in any other way. “Maybe if you weren’t at each other’s throats all the time, you could actually have a productive conversation.”

“But he’s grumpy and weird and always so _mean_ ,” Pete whines, knowing he behaves like a five-year old. “I don’t know how to handle that.”

Gabe groans, ears twitching again as he sighs. His breath still smells like whiskey, too. “And why the fuck are you telling _me_ all this? Go ask that deer boy yourself how you can suck up to him.”

Pete growls a little, places his head in Gabe’s lap who gets the silent plea, and scratches his ears. “I don’t wanna _suck up_ to him. I just want him to _like_ me.”

 

Before Gabe can answer, a second person approaches the bunk beds. It’s Joe, with something lit between his lips that doesn’t look or smell like a regular cigarette. He offers the joint to Pete as he sits down next to him. “Hey, we all gotta calm down, right?” Joe just says when Pete rolls his eyes.  He declines, but Gabe takes a hit, obviously agreeing with Joe’s policy on how to deal with stress (and slight hangovers). Pete wonders what Patrick would think. He’s a _deer_ , wouldn’t he like all sorts of grass and weed and herbs?

“Joe, help me out,” Pete groans, “I wanna stop the deer boy hating me.”

Joe nods, patient as always, as he thinks about it. “Look, Gabe’s a dick and I’m chill,” he says after a while, “but not everyone is, well, us. You gotta handle him differently. Don’t take the bait every time he lowers his antlers. Just… Chill.”

“ _Just chill_.” Pete scoffs, cuddles closer to Gabe. “I don’t know why I expected a stoner to give me a helpful answer.”

“See?” Joe raises his eyebrows as he takes another hit, his bunny ears laid back and half-hidden under the wild curls. “You did it again.” He blows out the smoke, hands the blunt to Gabe again, who laughs in agreement.

“The bunny is right.” Gabe continues to scratch Pete’s ears, but the look he sends Pete makes it clear he’s being serious.

Fuck. Pete thinks back to his interactions with his deer boy, the forced apologies, the constant bickering, and how easily Patrick riles him up with everything he says and does. Well, maybe that’s not Patrick’s fault entirely. Maybe he’s taken the wrong approach. “You have a point,” Pete admits begrudgingly, and Joe grins.

“You’re supposed to say ‘thanks, oh mighty Trohman’.”

“Fuck you,” Pete says, sticks out his tongue at him. “You just said I should be nicer to my deer boy, not _you_ , Joe.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t just think about yourself.” Gabe pushes Pete off his lap, and gets up. He extends a hand to Pete, who’d rather continue sulking in his bunk, but knows Gabe won’t tolerate his shit. “If this is about Patrick, then think about him too. You can’t expect him to just magically like you just because you decided you want him to.”

Pete takes the hand offered, mumbles something under his breath; Gabe pats his shoulders, and grins. “Be a good son of a bitch, Pete.”

They meet Andy outside the bus; he’s already made a coffee run, and hands Pete a big cup of presumably cruelty free, vegan caramel coffee. It’s not Starbucks, but it’s an apology that Pete accepts with a grin and rubbing his head on Andy’s shoulder until he’s pushed away with a laugh.

The first sip of the caffeinated drink tastes like heaven. Pete takes a second sip, starts to think about his friend’s words. What would his deer boy like? Pete’s ears perk up, and his tail waggles a little in excitement. He just had an idea.

 

 

Next lonely night, Pete picks up his sidekick, and moves to the relative privacy of the couch.

“You again,” Patrick says, no further introductions, it seems his conversational skills are questionable in many regards. “Can’t sleep?”

“How are your antlers?” Pete asks instead.

Judging from the silence, Patrick seems taken aback by that question. “They’re fine,” he says eventually, “told you, they were just shedding the velvet. It – it looks worse than it is. But I didn’t mean for you to get all freaked out.”

Pete takes a deep breath, and remembers his earlier conversation with his bandmates. Words, he needs to use them if he doesn’t want Patrick hang up on him again. “I was just taken by surprise. People around me don’t have antlers, therefore they don’t just start randomly bleeding like this. And my anxiety just can’t always handle unexpected situations well.”

Further silence doesn’t help said anxiety either. Pete presses his sidekick closer to his ear. Why doesn’t deer boy say something?

“People around me don’t always handle my antlers well,” Patrick says quietly. “I’m just used to everyone being grossed out.”

Pete actually snorts. “Grossed out?” He repeats incredulously, “c’mon, it needs more than that to gross me out. If you saw our Cobra Cam, you’d know that just last week I won a bet for drinking my own piss.”

It’s Patrick’s turn to snort, though more with disgust than amusement. “I saw that.”

“You did?” Pete can’t help but waggle his tail a little; so, his deer boy cares!

“How’s that tattoo of yours?” Patrick changes the subject, but he doesn’t sound as lighthearted as he wants to.

“Good,” Pete says, mostly out of spite. He’s not one for regrets, but that doesn’t mean he can’t admit the tattoo is… Well. Whatever. “Great,” he adds hastily, “and all healed up. Wait, did you see that on the Cobra Cam, too?” Pete sits up, hears the _tap tap tap_ of his tail tapping against the couch cushion.

Patrick scoffs, and Pete can basically see through the phone how he lowers his head just a little. Just enough to get a nice sense of sharp antlers. “I told you already, I just like to stay up to date with my acts. Especially since you and I are supposed to be business partners, and you’re supposed to help with the PR work.”

That sounds like a lie. Pete grins, because despite Patrick’s defensiveness, it feels good to know he cares about their antics, keeps up with more than just the money and the music. Joe said not to take any bait, so Pete switches the topic to the question he’s meant to ask from the beginning of the call.

“Hey, deer boy. You like sweets, don’t you?” Pete’s tongue slips in excitement again, but biting it hard can’t take back the slip up.

Patrick’s tone is back to being irritated. “Can you stop calling me that? I don’t like being insulted.”

“I don’t mean it as an insult,” Pete tries to hastily defend himself.

“You don’t get to decide what words mean to me.”

Pete pouts, even though Patrick can’t even see that. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t like that his words are so ugly and harmful to Patrick. No doubt that Pete can be mean, spiteful, use his pen as a weapon, but he’s always in control, his words delivered as a precise, sharp blow wrapped up in pretty music and some neon glitter. No, Pete doesn’t like losing control over his creations like that, and he quite likes the nickname he coined for Patrick. Not because he is trying to be mean, but because it’s something personal only belonging to Pete, something cute and attached to emotions. The wrong ones so far, but Pete has every intention to change that.

Despite his noble intention, he decides it’s best to drop the topic for now. Something else is more important.

“Sweets,” Pete repeats, unable to hold back a grin. “You like those, right? You’re a sweet tooth, aren’t you?”

Patrick’s frown is basically audible. After a moment Pete hears him take a breath. “I don’t know why you keep asking these weird questions, but yeah. Sometimes.”

A simple _yes_ of course isn’t enough for deer boy. Whatever. Pete bites back a comment, and just tells himself he got the info he wanted. Something he can work with. He plays with the charm on his necklace (a paw, matching the pun of his hoodie) and scratches his ears; what would a good son of a bitch say?

“Thanks,” Pete coos into the speaker, “that’s very helpful to me!”

There’s a small cough, and Pete assumes deer boy is shaking his head, cautiously, so that his antlers don’t hit anything (or anyone). “What’s with all the heartfelt thanks and sorry all of the sudden? You’re scaring me.” Patrick still sounds irritated.

Pete’s grin only widens. He wonders if the _tap tap tap_ of his tail is audible over the phone. “Thought I’d try a new approach in communication with you.”

“Well, you never fail to surprise,” Patrick deadpans, which is not the praise Pete had hoped for, but hell. Pete isn’t really a patient person, but he is persistent; if he has a goal, he will reach it no matter what, be it fame for Fall Out Boy or getting his deer boy to lower both his real and metaphorical antlers.

“Can I call you again?” Pete tries to hold back his excitement as much as he can; he doesn’t want to scare his elusive little stag. Personal boundaries are not a thing for Pete, but they may be to Patrick.

Patrick sighs. “If I say no, would you listen to me?”

“Maybe,” Pete answers, voice thick with disappointment.

“Maybe?” Deer boy sighs again, but much to Pete’s relief, it’s followed by a low chuckle. “Whatever. Just call me, puppy.”

“I don’t wanna be a bother.”

“And I don’t want to be another cheap solution for your boredom,” Patrick counters, which really hurts Pete. He’s many things, but not such an utter asshole.

“I don’t call you ‘cause I’m bored!” Pete can’t help but defend himself here. “Okay, I do a lot of stupid things when I’m bored, but… Talking to you isn’t one of them. I’m talking to you because I want to.”

A moment of silence passes. Pete anxiously waits for a reaction.

“You’re weird,” Patrick finally concludes. Well, says the right one, but Pete decides not to point that out right now. “But… You’re strangely tolerable over the phone.”

They say their goodbyes, and Pete is left  a little less alone.

 

 

From now, whenever possible, Pete scouts the local shops for sweets. Anything obscure or weird, anything that looks sweet and tasty and like something that would put a smile on his deer boy’s face. Preferably, anything with strawberries, that seems to be Patrick’s favorite. Whatever he finds, Pete hoards in a box, carefully kept stashed in his luggage.

“What’s with the sweets? And aren’t dogs like you supposed to bury their food?” Joe comments as he watches how Pete adds more sweets to his stash.

“I better not find you anywhere near them,” Pete growls in response. “If you get high and get the munchies, eat something else.”

“You can dine on my dick!” Gabe yells from across the bus. Joe flips him off, attention already on the bickering with the Doberman. Andy sends Pete a pensive gaze, but forgoes the questions.

 

 

“I’m keeping you up all night,” Patrick says during their next phone call. “You must be tired, puppy.”

Pete bites his lip, skips the answer in favor of silence.

Patrick doesn’t stop. “You had an interview, the concert, the party afterwards…Aren’t you exhausted?”

“I am,” Pete confesses in a small voice. Exhaustion dulls Pete’s thoughts, but makes him hyper sensitive to every touch, sound, smell. “I just can’t sleep.”

“Talking on the phone won’t help.”

Maybe deer boy has a point. Talking won’t help. But maybe something else would. Pete presses his sidekick closer to his ear. “Can you sing me to sleep?”

The stretch of silence feels like hours.

“Are you playing some sort of prank here? I swear, if you’re recording this for your Cobra Cam or whatever, I’ll kill you –“

“I’m not,” Pete interjects hastily. Fuck, why must Patrick always be so defensive, assume that people are only out to ridicule him? Pete wants to growl, wants to lounge right into a fight, and it takes a considerable amount of effort not to. “I just – I like your voice. Always did, even before I knew it was yours.”

There are unasked questions on Pete’s tongue as Patrick stays silent. Why is he so bad at accepting a compliment? Why doesn’t he credit himself as the vocalist? What’s he so afraid of?

Tonight, over the phone, is neither the right time nor place to ask.

“Please,” Pete inquires softly, and hears Patrick sigh.

“Fine.”

Deer boy sings Bowie’s Life On Mars; Pete falls asleep before he gets to the end of the song.

 

 

As much as Pete doesn’t want the tour to end, there’s one thing he’s looking forward to once they’re back home in Chicago.

In fact, Pete can’t _wait_. He’s armed with a venti Starbucks cup full of caffeinated sweetness, and a box of treats from all over the world for his deer boy. Pete is just waiting for him, sitting in Patrick’s office on his desk, all tail-wagging excitement.

When Patrick finally enters his office, Pete almost wants to lunge forward and go hug him. But the grumpy frown and newly-grown antlers let him hold back.

“Good to see you again,” Patrick mumbles as he eyes Pete’s shirt. It’s black, with a neon pink print of Pete’s bartskull tattoo, made to look like it bleeds down over his chest and stomach. Patrick doesn’t look too impressed by it. Pete's necklace with the paw charm doesn't seem to impress him either. Maybe deer boy will notice it when Pete finally gets the matching collar for his newest accessory. 

In return, Pete stares at deer boy’s antlers. Fuck, he has almost forgotten how _huge_ these things are. No more fuzz, just proud ivory bones overshadowing deer boy’s skull. Pete’s fingers itch. He wants to touch, wants to explore, wants to make sure once and for all that antlers aren’t an enemy to be feared. Patrick let him do that once, so why not try his luck a second time?

Patrick sits down, looks at Pete with his huge, dark eyes like he waits for him to speak up.

Pete points at his antlers. “Can I touch?”

Judging from the way Patrick narrows his eyes, that’s not exactly what he wanted Pete to say. “I’m not some zoo animal,” he scowls, his angry voice betrayed by the way his eyes suddenly stare at the floor, a flicker of hurt overshadowed by long lashes. “And I’m not here for your amusement, or morbid curiosity. Keep your paws to yourself, puppy.”

It hurts, but not because of Patrick’s sharp words, no. It hurts because Pete wonders what made his deer boy freak out like this in the first place. He’s clearly so proud of his antlers, and yet… Why the fear? Why the anger? Why is it that every time Pete comes one step closer, his deer boy takes two steps back?

“I’m just… Okay, I might be weird, like you said, fine. But I’m not malicious. I’m not mean. I would never!” Pete says as calmly as possible. He crosses his arms over the neon pink bartskull print on his shirt. “I know what it’s like to just be a prop. A freakshow for the media, or just some machine that’s supposed to smile and function for the fans.”

Patrick stays silent, ears twitching, eyes still on the floor.

“I’m sorry I was such an ass about your antlers,” Pete continues, and this time, the apology feels genuine. “I don’t want to be like that anymore. But… I just need something to make me help understand. If you always keep a distance, how could I see you as anything but some sort of fairytale creature?”

“I am _not_ a goddamn fairytale creature,” Patrick protests weakly as he gets up. For a moment, Pete thinks he’s lost, that Patrick will just sneer at him and leave his office, offended by the brash little puppy making such bold statements.

 

Instead, Patrick stands in front of him, head lowered a little. He’s smaller than Pete but with those giant antlers, it really doesn’t matter. “There. Go ahead, puppy,” Patrick mumbles as he points to his antlers, insecurity masked by his usual frown. “Try anything funny and I _will_ crack your skull with them.”

Oh yeah, Pete has no doubts that his human skull would lose against these giant antlers. He has no intention to try though; he doesn’t want to fight.

What Pete wants is to stretch out his hand, fingertips brushing against the antlers. No more fluffy velvet, just the hard bones. It feels a lot rougher than expects, with a few small bumps at the base, extending into the several ramifications; their tips are smooth, pointy enough to suggest the promise of pain. Pete has to stand on his toes to reach the end of the antlers.

It makes Pete wonder just how inconvenient these antlers must be. He hasn’t appreciated how graciously and carefully Patrick handles himself in a world that clearly isn’t made for them.

“You done?” Deer boy asks cautiously, his ears – pointed up, suggesting alertness - twitching. He’s looking at Pete with his big eyes, and from up closer they always look a lot less scary. Pete can see more of the pretty blue of deer boy’s iris, although he notices for the very first time that the slightly constricted pupils aren’t actually a perfectly round circle. The nervous flicker of his tongue leaves Patrick’s two-colored lips wet and shiny, and Pete feels a strange heat spreading through his body.

 

Irritated with himself, Pete takes a step back, hands in his pockets now. “Not as scary as I thought,” he says with a small smile, not knowing whether he means the deer boy, or his antlers.

“Well, and _you_ sure aren’t scary at all,” Patrick retorts; his words sound like his usual banter, but the tone of his voice doesn’t match. It sounds less like an insult, and more – surprised? Relieved? “All bark and no bite, like I said. You really _are_ a puppy, aren’t you?”

Pete just laughs. “I am. That’s why I don’t mind the nickname.” He really doesn’t, especially not from Patrick. When did things get turned all upside down?!

Patrick shakes his head, which still can’t hide the soft smile on his lips. Pete decides to change the topic. Time for some good news.

 

“I got you something,” Pete exclaims, gestures towards the box. Patrick sends it a questioning look. “It’s not a prank, I promise.”

It’s a very satisfying feeling when Patrick hesitates for a moment, then decides to believe him without further questioning. Another point of trust earned with his deer boy. It’s even more satisfying to watch Patrick’s eyes widen in utter excitement as he opens the box. “What is all this?” Pete hears him whisper, “Pete, are you – what?”

“You said you’re a sweet tooth,” Pete says with a wide grin, “so I thought I’d bring you back some from the tour. As a souvenir.”

Deer boy inspects the content of the box, the bright, pretty labels, silently tries to mouth the foreign words printed on the sweets. “Why? You – you didn’t have to,” he mumbles, eyes still glued to the delicious treats in his hands.

A simple _thanks_ would be more in order, but by now, Pete knows things are never this easy with his deer boy. “I know I didn’t _have_ to,” he explains carefully, “I just wanted to make you happy. That’s what friends do. Right?”

“So we’re friends now,” Patrick says amused, head turned to Pete now who can’t help but waggle his tail just a tiny bit at the thought of friendship with his deer boy. “Fine, puppy. And thank you. Now, tell me, where do I start with all this?”

Pete’s grin widens. “I like the Matcha Kitkat best. It’s the green one.”

“ _Green_ ,” Patrick repeats with a sneer. “Sweets aren’t supposed to be green. Unless they're pistachio, maybe.” He hands it to Pete anyway, though unsurprisingly, goes for the pink strawberry one himself.

“Got another treat for you,” Pete says in between two bites, “there’s this amazing new band I wanna sign…”

 

 

 

Said amazing new band is in Patrick’s studio a week later. Pete’s excited because he got a hot new band, a strawberry donut in the pockets of his hoodie, and he expects Patrick’s appreciation for both. And there’s something about the singer that makes Pete sure Patrick will love them.

The guy has shyly introduced himself as William, and what’s interesting about him – aside his music – are his looks.

 

Because William is a stag.

 

He lacks the facial traits, no freckles, no black nose, no big black deer eyes. But he’s tall, long limbs like a fawn, a pretty face with the matching human doe eyes, ears similar to Patrick’s. Atop his soft brown hair sits a pair of antlers. They’re smaller than Patrick’s, and they lack his majestic grace; they’re also not symmetrical, more twisted, just a little bit off. William seems to be a different kind of deer (a fact Pete had never thought about before – that there might be different species of deer), so Pete doesn’t question it too much. All he’s excited about is to present the band to _his_ deer boy.

“The Academy Is…” Pete’s deer boy repeats, brows raised. “The academy is _what_ , exactly?”

“That’s the joke,” Pete tries to explain as he gestures towards the band, nervously standing in Patrick’s studio.

Patrick takes another look at them, and his eyes widen slightly. Without a further word, he grabs Pete by the sleeve, and unceremoniously drags him outside.

 

“The hell?” Pete hisses once they’re outside and he’s snatches his arm away. He really doesn’t appreciate being treated like a disobedient dog, especially not in front of a bunch of kids whose boss he technically is.

“Indeed, puppy, what the hell!” Of course, there’s no sort of apology or anything from Patrick, who looks weirdly distressed. “Don’t you see there’s something wrong with the boy?!”

Now, Pete has seen his deer boy being angry a lot, he’s experiences various stages of Patrick’s temper. But never this. Patrick is furious, and he’s worried, and Pete just feels lost.

“No, I don’t!” Pete snaps back. “Maybe you fucking explain it instead of just yelling at me!”

Patrick turns his head away, dark eyes peeking up at Pete through golden lashes. “It’s the antlers, dipshit. Haven’t you noticed?”

No, whatever that is, Pete has not. This is so fucking unfair. “Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t happen to have any, and I don’t know what’s wrong with his!” Pete makes a helpless gesture with his hands. Sure, William’s antlers look a little wonky, a little… _Off_ , but, well. “How is it any of my business anyway? Isn’t it rude to talk about someone’s… deformations?”

For a moment, it looks like deer boy wants to whack him with his own pair of antlers. If Pete weren’t pressed against the wall already, he’d take a step or two back. Thankfully, Patrick just shakes his head, and stares at Pete with a weirdly serious expression. Suddenly his eyes don’t look so scary anymore, there’s – sadness? And the scowl on Patrick’s lip, is that still just anger? Doubt befalls Pete as Patrick takes a deep breath, then speaks up.

“Antlers aren’t horns. We don’t keep them for life. We shed them regularly, and they grow back.”

Pete nods. Yeah, that much even he knows.

“But growing the antlers… It requires a lot of resources from the body. If you don’t get enough nutrition, the growth of the antlers is one of the first things the body stops supporting. In a way, the antlers show how healthy a person has been during their growth period. And William…” Patrick balls his hands into fists, “William doesn’t look healthy to me at all. His antlers are way too small, all twisted, and – and there’s just something _wrong_. I won’t support their band until I can make sure he is in the right shape, mentally and physically, and doesn’t break down on stage.”

Patrick crosses his arms and looks down. That makes his antlers point at Pete, but it doesn’t come off as a threatening gesture all of the sudden. No, it rather makes Pete want to lift up deer boy’s chin, it makes him want to wash that sadness in his big, ocean-blue eyes away with a bright smile, it makes him want to hug Patrick and tell him it’s fine, it’s okay, he’s sorry for not knowing, sorry for being ignorant, just sorry.

“Thanks for telling me,” Pete mumbles quietly. “I didn’t even know. I just… Assumed his antlers were different, or whatever.” He still wants to hug Patrick, but settles for an awkward shrug instead. Helplessness overcomes Pete, which he doesn’t like at all. That’s not what he prepared for. He came to introduce a fabulous new band and sweep deer boy off his feet by showing once more how he can sniff out raw talent. Now, this meeting has suddenly taken a dark turn that Pete can’t really deal with. He’s afraid even the donut still waiting in the pocket of his hoodie won’t help right now.

Apparently, Patrick has less problems dealing with the situation than him. Deer boy turns on his heels, marches back into his office, and has send out the whole band save for William before Pete can catch up with him.

 

William looks nervous, ears flat on his head, eyes widened and staring at his potential bosses. Patrick loses no time to address the awkward situation in the room. “Your antlers, Will. Something’s going on and we’re not proceeding until you told me what’s up.”

“Are they a bother?” William hastily reaches for them. “I can get rid of them, Mr. Stump. Please, all I want to do is make music. If you need them gone –“

“No. No, never! Absolutely not, do you understand?” Patrick interrupts him, his voice a little too loud, eyes a little too wide, hands balled into fists again. William sinks further into his chair, and Pete can’t help but furrow his brows, wondering what caused this strange reaction in his deer boy. Patrick slightly shakes his head, then sits down in his own chair again. Pete sits on his desk, nervously bouncing his leg and staring at the small, twisted bones amongst William’s dark curls.

The tense atmosphere weights on Pete. “It’s not that you have antlers,” he says nervously, mostly to just say something. “Just… They’re…” He helplessly gestures to Patrick, who is obviously the expert in antlers here.

“Are you getting enough nutrition? Do you eat right? Are you sick?” Patrick leans forward, eyes the antlers of the other stag. “You don’t need to be afraid, but don’t bullshit me. I can see something is wrong. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I am okay.” William sighs a little, nervously scratches his ear. “Well, I am _now_. I used to have an eating disorder. It’s better, I promise, I recovered, but… I was just a teen, and the ED screwed up my body.” William points his fingers to his head. “And my antlers were the first part of me to suffer. By now, at least they’re growing again, but… They’re still majorly screwed up. Maybe they will be forever.”

 

A heavy silence fills the room. Awkwardness and anxiety overcome Pete, and even Patrick doesn’t look so confident anymore.

 

“I’m sorry,” Patrick stammers eventually. “I didn’t mean to get too personal. I was just – we were just worried.”

William smiles shyly, brushes over his antlers again. “It’s fine,” he assures, “I don’t mind. They make it pretty obvious, right? But it doesn’t – yeah, they may look weird, but that’s not a problem, right?”

Patrick shakes his head again, mismatched lips pressed together.

“I wish I had such pretty antlers as you,” William says softly as he eyes deer boy with awe. “They’re beautiful. I hope that if I stay healthy, I can grow a majestic pair just like yours!”

That’s a rather unusual compliment, one that deer boy must not have heard very often in his life, because he’s bar any answer. Instead, he stares at William in confusion, wide dark eyes and a hint of a blush on his freckled cheeks. It makes Pete wonder how other people kept reacting to the antlers, what Patrick has heard about his appearance so far. Not much good, it appears, and Pete feels his own face heating up in shame over the fear, the ridicule, the mean thoughts he’s had over his deer boy. It just seems childish and unfair now.

“Thanks,” Patrick says eventually, half confused and semi embarrassed, yet with a hint of pride. “I’m sure you will.”

William practically glees, all excitement and eagerness.

Patrick changes the topic, asks a few more questions related to music, but Pete doesn’t listen. He can’t help it, he has to eye Patrick’s antlers again, which look all new in the light of William’s praise. It's true, they do look majestic, and it’s good to know Patrick is healthy enough to grow a ridiculously large pair of extra bones on his head. Now that Pete has lost his fear, he seems to find his appreciation for them.

 

They sign the band, and Pete couldn’t be happier.

 

That is, until they all leave.

 

“See you for Fall Out Boy’s next album!” Pete says with a grin, winks at deer boy who just scoffs. “I’ll keep in touch, be assured that we’re ready to be back soon!”

“Go, puppy,” Patrick says fondly, a small smile betraying his parting words. “I’m looking forward to working with you guys again.”

Pete waggles his tail, ears perked up as he waves Patrick goodbye. The TAI boys are all caught up in their excitement, already on their way out and planning their way to fame. At the end of the hallway, Pete remembers the donut, sitting in his pocket, forgotten over the small drama over William’s antlers. He turns around, ready to run back to his deer boy and deliver the treat, hopefully in exchange for some praise.

But when he turns around, Patrick isn’t alone anymore. Out of nowhere, a strange man has sneaked up on Pete’s deer boy, has sneaked an arm around his waist, and Patrick – Patrick seems weirdly okay with it. He doesn’t face Pete, but judging from the fact that the other guy doesn’t have a gaping wound on his head, Patrick must be okay with this sort of body contact. Pete swallows as a nasty feeling sparks in him.

 

The guy is a fox, with a pair of pretty, sand-colored, fluffy fox ears, matching his soft-looking fluffy tail. He’s tall, a giant fucking _predator_ , and he’s hunting Pete’s deer boy, how fucking _dare_ he. Pete bares his teeth (even though neither of them can see him), tail raised, hands balled into fists.

Fox guy says something that makes Patrick chuckle as he lets himself get pulled closer into Foxy’s grip, and then Foxy kisses him.

And deer boy kisses back.

 

Pete turns on his heels, fuming with spite and anger, eyes burning with tears. He doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t know why he’s angry, why he feels betrayed, why is stupid heart is beating against his ribcage like it wants to escape this miserable body. Pete throws the donut into the nearest garbage can.

 

 _Screw that fucking deer boy_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Who is that fox, and will our idiots work out their issues? Come back next chapter to find out!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! It's been a busy time. Nevertheless, I am back with deertrick fic and art! 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for being her usual awesome self and a great beta for this!

 

 

 

 

Patrick sits on his bed, arms slung around his legs, chin resting on his knees. His antlers aren’t a burden yet, despite their full size, but it’s always nice to get some relief for his strained muscles.

The sheets are rumpled, and there’s someone else next to him.

“What’s up with you?” That someone says, warm orange eyes smiling at Patrick as he turns to him.

“Just thinking,” Patrick replies, not reciprocating the smile; he’s lost too deep into his thoughts for that. The other man chuckles and sits up to kiss Patrick’s nose. “Stop that,” Patrick mumbles as he turns his head away again, “stop it, Michael, you know I don’t like that.”

Michael’s big, fluffy fox tail rests on the bed, his ears perked up as he looks at Patrick with a lenient sigh, cups Patrick’s chin with his hand. “You’re being extra grumpy today,” he says softly, “you know that I’m your friend, right? We can talk about this.”

“Right,” Patrick scoffs with hurt in his voice, “my _friend_.” Just like Pete is merely his _friend_. Patrick buries his head in his arms. “Tell me, do you have _friends_ like me in every city that you visit?”

If he angles his head just right, his antlers should prevent anyone from getting into his personal space. Patrick feels gross and nasty and mostly, annoyed with himself.

Michael is having none of it, he has learned to maneuver around the antlers, real or metaphorical. “Who is it you’re really angry with?” he asks with a patience that Patrick doesn’t feel he deserves.

 

Patrick is being unfair, and he knows it. Michael is a great guy, and he hasn’t done anything wrong to Patrick, quite the contrary. When they met for the first time in Patrick’s studio, he’d been enticed by the tall, attractive fox musician; the sly yet sweet, sand-colored eyes, the gentle smile, the raw talent as Michael played, lost in the music entirely.

It was the jet-black tip of Michael’s nose that won Patrick over.  

Michael has never been anything but a gentleman, and never been anything but open with him. Their dynamics work out perfectly because Michael is calm and collected, unafraid of Patrick’s antlers or antics, and he’s made clear what he wants and what not. Michael lives for the music, lives for his band, for being on stage and creating. He wasn’t looking for anything serious, offered Patrick friendship and fun as long as they both knew it wasn’t ever going to be more than that. Which was fine with Patrick who couldn’t deny his attraction to the handsome fox, but couldn’t find any real romantic feelings for him. What they have is good, sufficient for Patrick, especially now that Michael is back for some physical contact, for sweat and sex and putting the damn puppy out of Patrick’s mind for a few moments.

Those moments are over now.

Michael nudges his black-tipped fox nose against Patrick’s neck, soft and sweet, inquiring. He’s much more confident with his discoloration on his face than Patrick but then again, it’s just the tip of his nose, a small spot on his otherwise elegant appearance. Part of Patrick wants to shut off, wants to pout and walk away and not talk about anything. But he reminds himself how not talking already ruined a lot for him, and Patrick is not about to repeat his mistakes. He’s already pissed off Vicky and made a fool of himself in front of Travie, there is only so much humiliation he can take.

 

Patrick turns his head towards Michael again – careful as always, antlers kept at distance – clears his throat. “Would you consider settling down?”

Michael looks slightly worried, his tail tapping against the mattress a few times. “You haven’t forgotten about our agreement?” he asks nervously, “I like you a lot, but you and I need different things, and –“

“’s not you,” Patrick interrupts him. “I mean, you know I like you too, but – not like that. There’s someone else.”

The tension slowly starts to vanish. With a laugh, Michael shakes his head. “You’ve found someone else? I’m jealous!”

Jealous? Patrick furrows his brows, embarrassed and irritated. Exclusivity has never been part of their hookup deal. “That’s not what we agreed on! You – you aren’t jealous. Stop making fun of me!”

“I’m _joking_ , Patrick.” Michael seems merely amused, his wise eyes full of laughter and that infinite patience that Patrick wishes he possessed as well. “But why ask _me_ then?”

Oh, there is no way Patrick is going to be even more of an idiot by asking Pete such personal questions. Their friendship has barely started to blossom, and Patrick won’t ruin it. Not now, anyway.

Michael sighs. “Making music is all I care about. I want to travel the world, I want to play as much as possible, get to explore every genre, every stage, just everything possible. I like my life, and while I can’t tell you where I’ll be in ten years from now, right now, I don’t see myself settling down. I couldn’t give my partner the love and affection and time they need, because the music already consumes too much of it.” He pauses, cocks his head, tail tapping lightly against the sheets. It reminds Patrick of his puppy, and he feels even worse. “That’s just me. Have you asked your guy what _he_ wants?”

Patrick scoffs. “Not _me_ , pretty sure of that.”

“So, you haven’t actually asked him,” Michael concludes in a more sensible manner than Patrick is conducting this conversation. “I’ll gladly help you, but I can’t answer for that crush of yours. You’ll need to ask him yourself.”

“He’s a musician, too. I thought… I wanted to ask someone like him before I ask _him_.” It sounds stupid the moment he says it, but thankfully, Michael doesn’t judge him. Instead, he slings his arms around Patrick’s waist, presses his dark-tipped nose against Patrick’s cheek again.

“Of course I wouldn’t want to lose you,” Michael starts softly, his voice calming and sweet, “but I know I’m not what you’re looking for, what you _need_ in a partner. If there _is_ someone who can give that to you, go for it. I like what we have, but I like seeing you happy even more.” He nudges Patrick with his nose again until Patrick turns around for a small, sweet kiss. When their lips part, Michael pulls him closer, and it feels good, very good, but not as nice as hugging Pete would feel. Patrick sighs in guilt and self-pity, earning himself another chuckle from the fox.

“Whatever happens, I’ll stay your friend.” Michael pecks another small, sweet kiss to Patrick’s ugly lips – he’s never been bothered by the stained skin. “With benefits or without.”

Something like hope blossoms deep in Patrick’s chest.

 

 

The Academy is… - which Patrick still considers a pretty stupid name – are back in the studio, yet another Decaydance band Patrick is working with. His schedule is full, Panic! (what is it with punctuation marks?!) isn’t done with their first album either, and then Travie will be back soon, and so will Fall Out Boy. Work is good. Work keeps Patrick grounded and away from the bad thoughts, especially about Pete returning to the studio that he hasn’t set foot in ever since he brought William and his band over. He hasn’t called either. Best not to think of it.

Patrick can’t help but keep his eyes fixed on William. He can’t recall the last time he’s met another stag, and one that has decided to keep his antlers at that. Not in the part of showbusiness he works for at least.

Patrick can’t deny a certain sense of jealousy. William is _beautiful_ , he’s a doe-eyed fawn without all the actually creepy animal traits that disfigure Patrick’s face. No, William is tall with long skinny limbs, graceful and ethereal, a pretty pale face and soft brown hair, big brown human eyes, he looks exactly how one would expect a humanoid stag to look like.

Except for his deformed antlers.

It’s the antlers that keep Patrick’s jealousy at bay, make him reconsider if William’s life was really that much easier even despite his appearance fitting in better. He has tried to make Pete see it, but he’s not sure a puppy understands, not sure that Pete realizes the tale of pain and suffering their twisted shape tells.

How does William still find the courage to walk on stage? After everything that has happened, and with everything he’s about to face? Patrick simply must know, courage and curiosity winning over his usual need to keep a distance.

“William, a word,” he says after the band has packed up, bites his lip at the worried look it gets him. His bandmate Sisky, a splendid marten with the most soft, exquisite-looking fur Patrick has ever seen, pats William’s shoulder.

 

“I can stay if you want,” he offers William, his dark eyes fixed on Patrick, his fluffy, luscious tail tapping nervously against his thigh. The distrust is undeniable; despite having a stag among them, that’s still not enough to get the band to accept Patrick. That thought burns low in Patrick’s stomach, almost makes him just dismiss them both, but William shakes his head, and sends his concerned friend away with some whispered words of reassurance.

Awkward silence settles between them. William shifts nervously from one foot to another, hands behind his back, ears flat on his head.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” Patrick starts, feeling surprisingly nervous. He’s William’s boss, his producer, a goddamn industry professional, and they’re in _his_ studio, which is usually the safest place Patrick can imagine. That’s where he can be himself, stubborn and bossy and a perfectionist, creative and open-minded. So why the sudden shyness?

“Something I wanted to ask you,” Patrick repeats weakly, already feeling like a fool, “about… About your antlers.”

Instinctively, both of them reach for the bones on their heads, and William furrows his brows. “Didn’t we talk about those already? I’m – I’m fine. I’m healthy. And you said I could keep them.”

“Of course you can,” Patrick hastily assures him, bile rising in his throat at the mere thought of ever having someone else going through the traumatic process of antler amputation. “I was just wondering…”

Hands balled into fists, Patrick searches for the words, angry at his lack of nonchalance. What is wrong with him? “How are you doing this?” He blurts out, the words falling from his lips before he can control himself, “how can you go on stage like this? People – people won’t like it. You’re opening yourself up to all the gossip, the hate, laughing and not being taken seriously just because you look the way you look. How – where do you find the strength? How – why can _you_ do this?!”

Patrick finally stops himself, slaps a hand over his mismatched lips and turns his too-large eyes away from William, hoping he won’t notice the ridiculous blush burning over his freckles, the even more ridiculous, strange tears burning in his eyes. It’s laughable, there is nothing to be so angry about, it’s utterly stupid, he’s just overreacting, it’s not important, he has everything tightly under control, it’s – it’s –

 

No. Maybe it’s not as fine as Patrick thought it to be. The thought frightens him to the very core.

 

Silence settles between them again, and for a moment, Patrick regrets everything. Talking is so hard and it _hurts_ , it hurts so fucking badly and Patrick doesn’t want to hurt. But William speaks up nonetheless.

“I wanted to look like everyone else wanted me to look – fragile and cute, a magical forest boy. That’s what we’re supposed to be, right? Majestic stags. A pretty _trophy_.” The words come out with anger, one which Patrick knows all too well. He isn’t a trophy either. Never wanted to be, anyway.

“I hated my antlers, I hated that they just – just grew out of my body without my control, that they just shaped my entire being. Everyone stared at me. Everyone constantly told me what to do – _be nice, be careful, watch your antlers, make sure at least the rest of you looks like a normal human being_ – I heard it all. But then I discovered that I _could_ control them, I could make them be small and dainty if I ate less, and less, and then so little that they stopped growing altogether.”

There is not enough air in the room to breathe. Patrick’s chest hurts, and his heart is beating too fast. William runs his hand through his hair, nervous and anxious, taps against his twisted antlers.

“For a while, I liked it. It made people stop talking. It made the bad thoughts go away because I was too busy with food, restriction, worries entirely about myself rather than others. No more appointments with the doctor to have my body parts cut off…” William stops himself, tilts his head as he eyes Patrick with sadness and grief in his expression. “Did they – did they do this to you as well?”

Patrick nods, his throat suddenly too dry to talk. He swallows, nods again. When everything is silent, he still hears it sometimes, the ugly things thrown at him, the apologetic mumble of his mom as she dragged him to the doctor, the sound of bones breaking, the sound of being _hurt_. Patrick doesn’t want to hurt. But William doesn’t stop.

 

“I won’t let anyone do that anymore, rule over me like that. I’ll do whatever the hell I want, and what I want is to go make music. If anyone talks shit about me, they can just go screw themselves!” William glares at Patrick with newfound confidence. “I have my music and I have my band I can count on, I would trust them with my life. Any bad days that come, those guys will get me through. I know it, and that what gives me the confidence to go on stage, antlers and EDs be damned.”

Patrick doesn’t know what to say. He still hurts, and his head is spinning, and this goddamn kid gave him this too-long speech about confidence that’s just infuriating. It’s so tempting to just dismiss everything, but William’s antlers and all-too similar fate prevent Patrick from being able to hide behind his usual walls. William knows, understands, he’s fought the same fight all his life, and his words begin to make just the slightest bit of sense. So does Sisky’s reaction – maybe it wasn’t meant personal, and he was just looking out for his friend. Patrick knows Vicky would do the same for him in a heartbeat.

It’s not what Patrick longed for, an easy, simple solution, a piece of legal paper to sign, a comforting path to follow that’ll guide him through life unhurt. No, in fact, it sounds like a lot of work, a lot of emotional strength, it sounds like Patrick will have to stop hiding behind his antlers and start using them to fight. Metaphorically speaking, at least. Damn it. Patrick sighs deeply; poetry can’t hide that it’ll hurt, and that no one can tell him if it’s worth the pain he pays for.

“Sorry if I sound like an utter dork, it’s just how I grew to see life. Hope it made sense to you anyway.” William’s voice interrupts Patrick’s train of thoughts; the other stag is smiling at him shyly, but confident in his words despite the apology. Even if Patrick were to disbelieve him, William won’t stray from his chosen path, that much is sure. Is that admirable, or plain stupidity? Yeah, part of Patrick wants to dismiss it as stupidity – the part that hides behind the security of signed papers, of anonymity and uncredited work, under hats and indoors at the studio, away from prying eyes.

But something in him refuses to waive it off that easily. A tiny bit of rebellion makes Patrick grin, and a tiny bit of courage lets him walk up to William, take his hands for a reassuring squeeze. Patrick briefly considers a hug, but that is hard to coordinate with the other stag being one foot taller and maybe not comfortable with that amount of body contact. “I think you may be on to something,” Patrick says with a chuckle, and when William grins back and draws him in for a hug anyway, Patrick feels like a huge weight has been lifted off his strained shoulders.

When they part, William shyly gestures towards Patrick’s antlers. With pride, Patrick lets them be admired by the gentle touch of William’s hands.

“One day,” William exclaims, pointing at Patrick’s antlers, “one day, I’ll grow them as big as yours! Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

No one has ever said that to Patrick before.  

Patrick smiles brightly. “Absolutely.”

 

 

Next day, Vicky and Patrick are sitting in comfortable chairs in a small, adorable bakery.

“It’s a _pasticceria_ ,” Patrick can’t help but correct, still hung up on his (albeit limited) newfound Italian skills.

“Whatever,” Vicky says with a lenient smile, “I knew you would enjoy both the food and being a smartass.”

Patrick shrugs his shoulders, partially because Vicky is right, and also because he doesn’t really care much – she has found this place, so she has every right to tease him a little. The interior is cozy kitsch, and the food – fuck, the food looks utterly amazing, rows and rows of delicious cakes, pastries and baked goods that Patrick can’t even identify. He just wants to eat everything. Together, they marvel over the sweets (“ _dolci_ ,” Patrick says with a satisfied grin, ignoring Vicky’s eyeroll), and end up taking way too much food.

“I’m taking some French lessons next,” Patrick laughs as they sit down. Vicky rolls her eyes and takes a bite of some sort of cream-filled, fried pastry while Patrick tries to find out what’s the best way to eat something the labeling called _canollo_. He doesn’t feel very elegant or sophisticated, but it’s worth for the delicious taste of ricotta, candied fruits, and chocolate.

“Learn all the languages you want, but my enthusiasm ends with the food you can order for me with those skills.” Vicky winks at him, licks a speck of cream from her manicured fingers. Sounds like a fair deal to Patrick. “And back at the studio, you still have more sweets – what’s up with those, by the way?”

Patrick reaches for the next pastry. “They were a gift. From the puppy.”

“Was that what you were talking about with him during all those phone calls?” Vicky grins, and waggles her eyebrows. “He _likes_ you, Patrick.”

“Yeah, totally,” Patrick scoffs in reply around a mouthful of food, thinking back to his last encounter with Pete. “He said we were _friends_.”

“Oh come on, don’t be so stupid, idiot. What’s he supposed to do, propose marriage immediately? He’s testing the waters because, and I say that as your friend, you’re really not the easiest to read sometimes.” Vicky catches his hand, gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Glad you’re enjoying your fling with Michael but damn, get out of your comfort zone for once. You’ve been stuck in a rut for long enough.”

There’s a very lame salacious joke about ruts on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, but he keeps silent. Just because his puppy likes bad puns doesn’t mean he needs to follow the bad example.

“Fine,” Patrick says, because he knows when he’s defeated. “Fine,” he repeats with an exaggerated sigh and more defiance than necessary, “I’ll do… I don’t know, _something_ , okay?” He withdraws his hand from Vicky’s to cross his arms in front of his chest, looks away, lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Hey.” Vicky leans over the table, head tilted slightly so that it doesn’t collide with any antlers, and gently puts her hand on Patrick’s cheek. Patrick almost wants to shove it away because when did people start to just touch him all the time? He isn’t some pretty little zoo animal, he doesn’t want to be a pet, and he isn’t weak, he’s – fuck. Right now, he is confused by everything.

Vicky isn’t bothered, just waits until she has his full attention. “I just want to see you happy.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Patrick mumbles angrily, but he doesn’t shove Vicky away, doesn’t retreat.

“’cause we’re your friends, silly.” With a grin, Vicky ruffles Patrick’s hair despite his weak attempt at glaring at her. Unlike Pete, she can read him too well.

“I just don’t want to be hurt,” Patrick whispers weakly, heat spreading over his skin as he admits the embarrassing truth.

“Oh, Patrick…” Vicky smiles at him, not her Cheshire cat grin, but a small, reassuring gesture. “I can’t promise that you won’t get hurt. But I swear, if that puppy breaks your heart, I’ll break his face. And if you get hurt, I’ll always be here to comfort you, silly.” She ruffles his hair again, and Patrick lets out a little choke that’s half laughing, half tears of relief.

“Thank you,” he mumbles with a small smile of his own, and now Vicky grins, bops his nose – a gesture even she usually isn’t allowed – and silences Patrick’s protest by handing him another delicious-looking pastry.

Patrick takes a deep breath, and then takes the ricotta-topped pastry from her hands. Time to show his gratitude to Vicky. “Did I tell you?” Patrick starts, then takes a small bite of the heavenly sweet baked good. “The Panic! kids are looking for help with their next music video. Told them I knew someone…”

 

 

A few days later, Patrick is on a video call with Fall Out Boy. Well, his camera screen displays nothing but black while theirs captures the whole band squeezed together around a laptop, overly excited and giddy. One step at a time. Patrick sits in his office, munches on the sweets Pete brought him; he’s set aside the weird, green ones Pete likes, for when he comes back, just out of politeness. Patrick is not a fan of matcha – pistachio should be the only green sweets, at least, in his humble opinion.

On screen, Pete is sitting down on Gabe’s lap, and Patrick is glad that no one can see his jealous frown.

“We’ve got a show in Chicago soon,” Gabe yells over the general noise; he leans forward, exposing too many heavy gold chains on his half-naked chest. His shirt is mostly unbuttoned, but he’s still wearing the Sons Of Bitches-hoodie in his trademark neon purple, matching the neon-colored sun glasses and baseball cap. “You have to come! Pete’s little Panic! kids will be there, too!”

“You have to come,” Joe repeats, leaning on Gabe’s shoulder, his bunny ears barely fitting into the frame, curls out of control, wearing a shiny tracksuit with a bunny logo. “Dude, you gotta see us play.”

“You helped us get big,” Andy argues, “it’s only fair to invite you to celebrate with us.”

General laughing follows as Gabe turns around to high-five Andy, his hand curling around Pete’s hip. The puppy has been unusually quiet so far, tugs at his collar – literally, a real fucking collar as one would buy for a real puppy. The band’s fashion sense is rapidly declining.

“It would be fun,” Pete finally says. “And c’mon, no one will recognize you. You’re always incognito, right? Anyone who knows who you are wouldn’t give you away anyway, or so I believe it’s in our contract. We’d give you our best show!”

“Really,” Patrick says, mostly to just say something that isn’t his immediate reaction – _no fucking way_.

“The best!” Pete repeats, and his tail starts to waggle as if those were the magic words to get him to stop moping. “The very best for you, deer boy!”

While everyone in the band simultaneously tries to shush him, Patrick considers his options. He hates crowds, especially with his full-sized antlers, and going out amongst strangers isn’t on top of his list of preferred activities either. Then again, hasn’t he promised Vicky to do something? Pete is right, no one would recognize him apart from the people who know him anyway, and despite everything, Patrick has trust in his bands. And the noise of the concert – plus the fact that the band is actually playing – would conveniently excuse him from any conversations with the puppy that he doesn’t quite feel ready for yet. One step at a time.

When the band is done scolding their bassist, Patrick takes a deep breath, and speaks up.

“Get me a triple A and someone to pick me up from the studio, and I’ll come.”

Several minutes of excited shouting follows, and Patrick catches himself laughing, catches himself being excited, catches his heart fluttering as Pete continues to grin into the camera with the biggest smile possible, tail wagging and ears perked up. Even though Pete can’t see him, Patrick smiles back.

 

When the call has ended, Patrick browses the internet for a book on French for beginners, and wonders if he should buy a new hat for the concert. He’s not sure what to wear, and his fully-sized antlers always limit all his fashion choices to certain headgear and shirts with buttons, as nothing else will fit over his head – but alas, at least he is confident he won’t be dressed any worse than the bands present.

 

 

When the day of the concert comes, Pete picks him up in a cab. Alone. Patrick is confused.

“Where’s the rest of the band?” He asks as he side-eyes his puppy. He wouldn’t put it above Pete to pull some stupid last-minute prank on him for Cobra Cam.

“We are… Undercover,” Pete explains as he holds open a door for Patrick, “wanted to take the big limo and the rest of the band, but I know, no publicity allowed for my deer boy.”

Patrick is too busy trying to fit his antlers into the narrow space to scold Pete for the annoying nickname. At least, that’s what he tells himself. _My deer boy_ , that’s a phrasing Patrick could get used to. It’s being Pete’s in _some_ way at least. It’s better than _nothing_.

“Shouldn’t you be with them?” Patrick asks gruffly once he’s managed to sit down somehow. The cab is just on the side of too small, and Patrick needs to lean back and sit in the middle spot to fit his antlers in, which is both annoying and sort of humiliating and _definitely_ not Patrick’s best angle.

Pete grins as he climbs next to Patrick. “Had to make sure the guest of honor arrives safely.”

“There is a front seat, you know,” Patrick says slightly alarmed; Pete sits too close to him, way too close, thighs brushing against his, tail brushing against Patrick’s arm, and Pete gets a good view of a very unflattering angle of Patrick’s face. “I might stab you to death if we get into an accident.”

A few months ago, that would’ve gotten Pete out of his personal space immediately. Why doesn’t it work now?! All Pete does is grin. “Make sure you hit my rib cage. Stab my car-crashed heart with those antlers of yours,” he says, then scrambles through the pockets of his too-tight jeans. “Mhm, gotta write that down somewhere…”

Patrick spares him another glance. Pete’s hair is styled impeccably already, the black fringe matching the soft black of his cute Labrador Retriever ears, eyes ringed with artistically messy eyeliner, clothes tight but not uncomfortable looking. He’s wearing the black SOB hoodie today – probably because he’s planning to promote his clothes on stage, of course – matching the weird dog dollar of his. Patrick isn’t sure what’s up with that, he just knows the gold-studded black leather with the small SOB paw tag looks entirely ridiculous, and way too enticing against Pete’s caramel skin.

“Glad I could be of help.” With that, Patrick turns away as far as he can, angry that their reunion is going so poorly. Maybe it will be more fun at the concert. Yeah, because nothing is better than watching a thousand pretty boys and girls enamored with his puppy. Patrick’s mood is on a downward spiral; why didn’t he stay inside where it’s safe and comfortable?

 

“Why did you let him kiss you?”

 

Patrick is taken aback by the abrupt question; he turns his head back to Pete, brows raised in confusion. “Why did I what?”

“Why did you let him kiss you,” Pete repeats in a low voice, and the joyful spark in his puppy eyes is gone. “That – that fox guy of yours.”

Finally, Patrick connects the dots. Pete must’ve seen Michael and him in the studio together, must’ve thought – well, fuck. Patrick never intended him too see or think anything in the first place. Before he can speak up, Pete leans closer, way too close into his personal space, and then that stupid damn puppy has the _audacity_ to just grab one of his antlers to prevent Patrick from turning his head away.

“Why did he kiss you? Why did he touch you?” Pete growls, ears and tail perked up, hand still curled around Patrick’s antler, “how dare he –“

Pete doesn’t get to end the sentence. Patrick’s momentary shock has worn off and the very next second, he has his hands on Pete’s wrist, nails digging into his flesh; Pete’s grip loosens and Patrick shoves him away with more force than necessary, blind with anger.

“Maybe _I_ kissed _him_ ,” Patrick replies viciously, voice trembling with fury. How dare this stupid puppy be so accusatory when it’s _Pete_ who constantly kisses everyone, everywhere, without any regards? Patrick thinks of tour photos of Pete and Gabe, of page six news, of Gabe’s hand curled around Pete’s hip possessively. “And don’t you ever fucking dare to touch me like that _ever again_ , understood?!”

Pete looks shocked, both at the harsh words and with himself. Awkward silence settles between them, and Patrick fleetingly makes a mental note to give a big tip to the poor driver.

“I’m sorry,” Pete mumbles quietly, all of his previous anger lost, ears pressed flat to his bowed-down head, tail curled around him. “You can kiss whoever you want.”

“Damn right I can.” Just a few minutes ago, the puppy would’ve made top of the list of people Patrick wants to kiss but in this very moment, with the bright, ugly humiliation of being treated like some animal, with the anger over Pete acting like a fucking asshole and with all the images of Pete kissing everyone, everyone but Patrick – no fucking way Patrick could admit that now. He harshly turns his head away, and with a smug sense of satisfaction, he notices how Pete backs away from him, flinches when the antlers almost hit his head.

A small sound escapes from Pete’s throat, almost like a whimper; just how much of a cliched puppy is the damn guy?! Patrick doesn’t get to think about it because Pete rolls down the window, watches as the city passes by, his hair getting messed up by the wind, and Patrick is too caught up with ignoring the heavy, invisible weight crushing his chest.

 

Without any further word spoken, they arrive at the venue. At least, Pete tips generously while Patrick gets out of the car, alone. Everyone around them is hectic, too busy to notice the antlered stag and the distressed puppy. Pete guides him inside, still silent, tail still between his legs, which Patrick would find almost adorable if he wasn’t so goddamn furious and confused and overwhelmed with the crowd of strangers. He keeps his eyes down, tries not to look as scared as he feels, tries not to listen to the hushed words around him, wondering if any of them concern the ugly stranger accompanying the pretty rock star puppy.

Patrick is relieved to get to the dressing rooms; finally, some familiar faces. True to Gabe’s words, Panic! Is here as well, all dressed up in stage costumes and make up even less subtle than Pete’s eyeliner. Patrick is surrounded by loud voices, big smiles and bad fashion choices, the smell of weed and alcohol, hands patting his back, as everyone tries to talk simultaneously. At least the chaos reduces the chances of anyone noticing the loaded tension between him and Pete.

Gabe soon wins over, mostly because he’s a foot taller than everyone around him. He sneaks an arm around Patrick’s shoulders because apparently, touchiness is the side effect of everyone getting used to his antlers. His gold chains rattle, and the neon is blinding. “So glad you came!” He half-shouts over everyone else, and Patrick wishes he had some of that alcohol that Gabe smells of. “We’re gonna fuck this crowd up! Our home turf, we’ll fucking destroy everything!”

Joe laughs as he leans in closer. “Chicago is our bitch! They made us big, so we’ll give them an even bigger show!” His bunny ears flop as he shakes his head, laughing again. Then, Brendon pushes him away, golden eyes glittering with excitement, matching his gold-painted horns. If Patrick wasn’t so preoccupied with keeping his nervousness at bay, he would have a word or two on those.

“Heard you got us something for the shoot?” Brendon yells while Joe retreats to not get stabbed by the kid’s horns. “Dude, Vicky is fucking scary, but as long as she gets what we’re going for – she suggested a Steampunk theme, can you believe it? Fucking amazing, right – “

The rest of the Panic guys – who’ve lost some of their initial shyness around everyone – yell something, and Patrick closes his eyes. This is all so much. Thankfully, Gabe seems to get it because he shushes the Panic! kids away, guides Patrick to the nearest chair, and hands him a bottle of water. Patrick is too grateful to even feel bad about being seen so weak and distressed. As he sips his water, the band members get called away, and Patrick gets one last pat on the shoulder from Gabe.

“So fucking awesome that you’re here,” he repeats again as he leans in closer, “next time, you’ll have to sing with us!”

Patrick is blinded by the gold and tacky clothes first, but now that Gabe is so close, he can make out something else around the singer’s throat. It’s a fucking collar, matching the one Pete is wearing.

That – that can’t be a coincidence, can it?

Patrick feels sick.

He keeps his eyes down as everyone leaves; once the room has cleared, he looks up into the giant, unforgiving mirror. A body that lacks elegance (but certainly not the extra pounds) dressed in his usual boring button-down, a pair of too big eyes, black face markings and freckles, all overshadowed by a dorky cap, a huge pair of fluffy ears and big, imposing antlers.

_Deer boy_.

 

 

The concert goes by in a blur, and Patrick is just happy that the noise from the outside world cancels out the noise in his head. From the back of the stage he can’t really see much, but he can’t be seen either. At least not by the cheering audience who doesn’t know they’re applauding the love songs Pete wrote for someone else. He’s bouncy on stage like always, spins around with his bass, licks over Joe’s guitar, presses close to Gabe. Nothing out of the ordinary so far.

It happens at the very end during _Saturday_ ; Pete just screamed his part into the mic with Gabe, and then he turns around, locks eyes with Patrick for a moment.

Then, he grabs Gabe by his collar, and drags him down for a deep, dirty kiss right on the mouth, right there in front for the whole fucking word, no, for _Patrick_ to see.

Patrick is out of the venue before _Saturday_ is over, haunted by the roaring and cheering of the crowd as the world watches Pete kissing someone else.

 

 

Home alone and in bed, Patrick finally stops shaking. The world around him slowly stops spinning, and Patrick reaches for his laptop, desperate for some distraction. When he checks his emails, his stomach drops again. A mail from Pete is on top of his inbox, simply titled “ _lyrics_ ”. Patrick wants to delete it and pretend it doesn’t exist, but that’s sort of difficult when the band will be back soon to record said lyrics with Patrick’s help. Best to get it over with now, away from prying eyes and stupid, stupid puppies.

_I couldn't bring myself to call / Except to call it quits_. Who else is Pete calling but him? Patrick isn’t sure if that line is about their nightly phone conversations while Pete was on tour – which have stopped since the last time Pete has visited his studio – or someone else. He isn’t sure if he wants to know.

 

_Best friends_ – that can only be Gabe, can it? – _Ex-friends till the end/ Better off as lovers_ – sick, Patrick feels so sick – _/ And not the other way around._

Each line is a punch to Patrick’s gut. He doesn’t want to believe it, he wants to deny, but the song itself won’t let him.

_This is a love song_ , the lyrics say so themselves. _In my own way_ , so, with pretty words and poetry and while kissing your loved one on stage because they aren’t an ugly little coward, they aren’t a grumpy deer boy, they aren’t _Patrick_.

With anger, Patrick shoves his laptop aside, and buries his face into the pillows. Careless and blinded by rage, he doesn’t pay enough attention as he lays down, and his antlers smash against the wall, the harsh impact sending pain down Patrick’s neck, shoulders, and his back. His heart aches, and his eyes sting with hot, wet tears.

 

Everything just hurts so much.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the angst! What may the boys do next? Can they solve their crisis? Let me know what you think, comments are what keep me going~
> 
> Until next time!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! As always, the art is done by me, this time, in the spirit of the inktober challenge! 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for being a great beta reader like always!~

 

“What the hell was that?!”

 

Fall Out Boy are back in the dressing room, but there is none of the usual post-show high, no adrenaline rush and excitement. Instead, Pete is confronted with three angry band members, most prominently, a very angry Gabe. It takes a lot to make him angry, Pete knows, which makes the situation even worse.

“What do you mean?” Pete asks innocuously, wide-eyed, head cocked to the side, tail tapping against the back of the seat that Gabe has dragged him into the second they left the stage.

“Don’t you play dumb with me, Peter.” Uh oh, full name; that never means anything good. Gabe is growling, tail stiff, his Doberman ears twitching. Not many people are this intimidating while wearing ridiculous neon and glitter stage attire. “The fuck was that kiss about?”

Pete squirms in his seat, tries to keep up the confidence despite the loaded atmosphere and his ears being pressed flat to his head already. “We kiss all the time, dude. Y’know, the fans love it? And –“

“Cut the bullshit,” Joe interrupt him, brows furrowed and annoyance in his voice. Shit, if even the stoner bunny is offended, Pete is in real trouble. “You didn’t do it for the fans. You weren’t even looking at the audience. You looked back, and I bet my ass you looked at Patrick.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Andy asks worriedly as he looks around the room. “He wasn’t with Panic! either.”

“How would I know?” Pete is pouting, and he is getting rather annoyed. “He’s a big boy, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. Probably ran off to his stupid fox guy to cry about the mean puppy.”

There is a collective groan, which is not the reaction Pete was hoping for. “You can’t be fucking serious,” Gabe says as he shakes his head. “Why are you acting like a first-class asshole all of the sudden?”

“ _He’s_ the fucking asshole here!” Pete jumps out of his seat, hands balled into fists. “He’s the one who’s acting all nice only to kiss – kiss this fucking fox behind my back! I’m trying my best to win my deer boy over, and that’s what I get? He made a fool out of me – he’s just like everyone else. Oh, the dumb puppy guy must be falling in love with everyone, we all know how much _fun_ it is to laugh about that.”

There’s another collective sigh, and Pete seems to be the only one surprised at his own words. “I’m not in love with him,” Pete tries to argue weakly, “I just want him to like me! I just – I just don’t want him to kiss someone else! I…” Pete stops talking, realizing he sounds entirely ridiculous. His head is pounding, and his heart is beating too fast, confused by all of these emotions and overwhelmed with everything. Really, Pete never meant for any of this to happen, he doesn’t know what made him switch from fear to jealousy, when he started to wish he could battle that frown on Patrick’s pretty lips with a kiss instead of snark, when he stopped being intimidated by the antlers and tried to reach for them instead of taking two steps back.

 

All Pete knows is that his deer boy certainly isn’t what he thought him to be anymore.

 

A large hand scratches his ears, and then Gabe drags him into a hug. “You’re such a stupid son of a bitch,” Gabe says affectionately, continuing to pet Pete’s ears until he stops pressing them flat to his head in distress. Joe and Andy join in, until Pete is smothered in sweaty bandmates and their shared friendship.

Joe pats Pete’s back, blue eyes full of worry. “Have you told Patrick how you feel?”

“I think I’ve made myself pretty clear,” Pete says defensively, retreating from the hug and crossing his arms. “I bought him his favorite food and sweet treats, brought him the best bands I could find, he let me into his personal space, I picked him up today like a true gentleman and – and, uh, I expressed a lot of emotions during our private cab ride.” His very diplomatic answer is met with the kind of skepticism that can only come from long-term friends and watchers of Pete’s way of handling relationships.

“Dude, you may be an actual puppy, but he isn’t,” Joe says, brows furrowed as he scratches his long, soft ears sticking out of his wild curls. “I don’t know if normal people accept getting treats and letting you feel them up as flirting.”

Pete growls, tail twitching in annoyance. “I didn’t feel him up. I just touched his antlers a little.”

“Wow, let’s not go there,” Andy interjects, tail swinging in objection and hands hold up to show he has no interest in any further details.

Gabe clears his throat, and puts a hand on Pete’s shoulder, preventing him from turning away as yet another uncomfortable question is thrown at him. “And how exactly did you _express a lot of emotions_?”

Helpless and angry with himself, Pete keeps his arms crossed, scowls at the floor as he recalls the cab ride. It all seemed so logical and appropriate in the heat of the moment, so why is he hesitant?

“Nothing,” Pete says after a while, meaning _everything_ . “I asked him why another man kissed him. And, uhm. Maybe…” Pete’s ears and tail droop in a sudden wave of shame. “I was just agitated. I wanted him to stop hiding for once. I wanted him to look me in the eye and just _talk_ to me. So when he turned away, I grabbed his antlers, but just because I was so fucking tired of us never being able to manage a conflict properly! I didn’t hurt him or anything! They’re just bones, right? I touched them before and it was fine! But this time he got fucking pissed over it.”

Andy clicks his tongue in disapproval, tiger tail still swinging from left to right. He looks too menacing for something as ridiculous as a vegan tiger, and despite his teeth being used for nothing but chewing vegan junk food and the occasional vegetable, they still haven’t lost their flash of danger when Andy growls: “You’ve got to be kidding me here. And when will you stop calling Patrick a deer boy?”

“Not _a_ deer boy. _My_ deer boy,” Pete corrects snottily, baring his own teeth.

Before Andy can get angry, Joe intervenes. “I don’t know if manhandling Patrick by his antlers is the proper conflict solving that you seek.”

“It was a spur of the moment decision! I didn’t mean to… I just… I just don’t fucking know anything anymore!” Pete throws his arms up in defeat, forgets any kind of threatening gestures or excuses. He’s just so done with everyone and everything and the tear in his heart, that thorn of the memory of Patrick kissing someone else, still stings so fucking much.

Knowing that this means Pete is basically about to shut down completely, his bandmates have the decency to stop the questioning, and just give him a few pats on the back while they all get ready to go home. Pete sulks, quietly, but can find no answers to the many questions that the last few days brought up.

“This isn’t the end of it,” Gabe says with a sigh as they all leave the venue. Joe and Andy nod, and Pete is half-relieved and semi-sad they no longer all share an apartment. Having his friends available at all times was both exhausting yet always ended up being a big help. Gabe ruffles his hair, lovingly strokes over Pete’s ears. “Hit me up when you feel like talking. But what we can all agree on _now_ already is that you better fix this, Pete.”

 

A bit later Pete sits home on the couch, furiously tapping away at his sidekick.

Gone are the times where the band had to share an apartment; they’re grown ups now, real fucking rock stars with lots of money. Well, almost. Either way, Pete is just sharing his space with Hemmy now, and it doesn’t matter that the house is too big, it doesn’t matter that Pete is barely ever here because the rooms are sterile, cold and oozing strange loneliness und unfamiliarity that Pete can’t deal with yet.

What matters are the words that are sprawled out on several pieces of paper in Pete’s lap, being typed into a somewhat coherent email addressed to Patrick Stump.

Pete is going to fix this, and what better way than to bear his heart right open for his deer boy in the most personal way Pete has to offer – his lyrics? He’s always been better with written words, and since his little talk with Patrick went all kinds of wrong, an alternative is needed anyway.

The only sound besides the keyboard is Hemmy’s panting as he watches his owner, slightly confused and seemingly jealous that Pete has shoved him off his lap for now in favor of his notebooks.

Pete writes and writes and writes, stitches old words and new hurts into a new tapestry of emotions, weaves them together to give deer boy a pretty picture of what Pete feels. He isn’t entirely sure _what_ it is that he feels, how to classify the bleeding wound and the bright warm spark in his heart; he knows he wants his deer boy to like him, sure.

But yeah, maybe, friendship isn’t enough. Maybe, it hasn’t been enough for a while.

With a deep sigh, Pete leans back, and reaches out to pet his puppy. Hemmy gets that all wrong, and excitingly jumps back on Pete’s lap, messing up and knocking down the papers and notebooks to make space for himself. But Pete doesn’t mind anymore; he knows what to write already. Not best friends, no, he thinks they’re better off as lovers – yes – yes, good, wait – what?

As soon as the words are typed out, Pete stops himself again as it hits him with brutal clarity. All the want and need and jealousy, impatience and anger and most of all, the longing to kiss the two-colored lips, hug the little deer boy tight, lean in to maneuver around his antlers and kiss him some more.

Fuck.

Pete bites his own lip while he thinks of Patrick. He wants to kiss him everywhere, not just on the mouth, wants to map every freckle, explore every inch of cream-colored skin hidden under the endearingly awful nerd clothes, and he wants Patrick to laugh and giggle and enjoy himself as Pete does so.

Pete wants to wrap his arms around him, hug him and squeeze him and have Patrick scratch his ears, pat his head, rub his belly. Every song, every word, it doesn’t matter, Pete is willing to give it all away. He wants to bring Patrick more sweet treats and cool new bands and talk music and movies and everything and nothing. He wants to earn Patrick’s trust, friendship, his affections and – and his love.

He wants his deer boy to be happy. Preferably with _him_ , Pete.

This is such a mess. Pete isn’t sure what to do, so he keeps typing, keeps talking about lovers and love songs all wrapped up in the pretty package of a gloomy song.

When he’s done, Pete presses send without thinking twice. Then, he angrily throws his sidekick to the other end of the couch, where it promptly falls off to the floor anyway. Pete can’t even be bothered to check if his beloved phone is alright. All he can do is wrap his arms around the warm and soft little doggie in his lap, pleased that at least someone is here to ease the pain, glad that all Hemmy has are small barks instead of annoying questions, relieved when Hemmy yelps, puts a paw on his face, and tries to lick away his owner’s frown.

Pete waits for an answer.

He doesn’t get one.

 

 

In fact, Pete doesn’t get _any_ sort of answers out of Patrick, who has resigned to tight-lipped frowns and fake smiles whenever they briefly see each other for any Decaydance matter. Deer boy keeps it short, polite, and ushers Pete out of the door before Pete can so much as say goodbye. He denies being mad or angry about the incident in the cab, says everything is fine, claims he is too busy to reply to any email and that they can talk about lyrics when the whole band is present.

Pete wants an answer.

So, he writes more, pretty words and elegant metaphors that make Gabe shake his head and Joe raise his brows. Andy keeps out of the love stuff, he always has, but the worrying looks that he sends Pete suggests he is not as nonchalant and disinterested as he pretends to be.

“Just tell him how you feel,” Gabe suggests, but clearly, he doesn’t get it. It’s Patrick’s time to make a move now, his deer boy simply must know that Pete craves his friendship and more, so why, why is he barricading behind radio silence and his giant antlers again?!

“I’m sure he likes you. C’mon, you guys have the label, he came to our concert, and he… Let you feel up his, uh, antlers or whatever. He _likes_ you,” Joe claims but clearly, he doesn’t get it either. Patrick’s invested into Decaydance because he wants the hottest new artists, the up and coming bands, tomorrow’s talent all to himself. The same reason he agreed to produce Fall Out Boy. That isn’t special. That isn’t Patrick _liking_ him. And whatever spur of the moment wave of trust has made him allow Pete to touch his antlers – and _only_ his antlers – that one time was obviously destroyed by Pete being a dumbass in the cab.

“Whatever you do, stop insulting him. And fucking stop calling him a deer boy,” Andy demands but clearly, he doesn’t get it. Patrick isn’t just some stag, he isn’t just _a_ deer boy, he is _Pete’s_ deer boy and that holds a special place in Pete’s heart. He would love to bare it open to his deer boy, make him see, make him understand, kiss away any sort of hurt the word may have caused Patrick.

Pete needs an answer.

All he gets is antlers and agony.

 

 

Fall Out Boy is back in the studio for the second time, and while their relationship has shifted, it certainly hasn’t gotten any better. Patrick seems a bit more relaxed with all the other people around, but he also doesn’t really talk to Pete either.

What he lacks in passion for Pete, he makes up for in passion for music. After the last album had been so well-received, Patrick seems determined to make this one even bigger, better and more pompous. Whatever ridiculous, extravagant idea the band may have, Patrick goes along with it without so much as blinking. When Gabe suggests horns, Patrick orders half an orchestra. When Gabe plays around with strange sound effects, Patrick spends three hours huddled together with the tall Doberman until it somehow flows with the melody of the song. When Joe plays him some new, experimental chords for a track, Patrick and the bunny talk it through and play it again and again until they’ve found the very best fit for whatever they’re going for. When Andy demands a different drum kit, Patrick offers him five different ones and explains the difference for recording in vast detail.

When Pete looks at Patrick for an answer, Patrick looks away. When they go over lyrics – never alone, never just the two of them – Patrick is back to tight-lipped frowns and as much professional indifference as there can be.

And Pete gets angry.

He and Gabe write a song about the scene, full of bitchiness and passive-aggressive anger, which gets them a warning from the label but nothing but a raised brow from Patrick. He claims to go along with it because marketing is not his department, he’s just here for the music, and just as with Dance, Dance, Patrick looks willing to get the song done against all odds.

Why can’t he show such determination for all the emotions Pete poured into his other songs? Doesn’t he care? Is it fun to play with the puppy, to just ignore him like that? Pete’s a big boy, if Patrick had no interest, he could just say so and Pete would – well, probably be heartbroken and continue to write love songs, but at least less hopeful ones. But his deer boy stays silent.

It makes Pete’s fingers itch to just grab him and shake him and yell at him until Patrick just fucking answers for once, but Pete has learned that this won’t work with Patrick. It would only make the shy stag retreat further, would earn Pete more anger and antlers and still no answers. He has to get them in other ways.

Gabe writes a fun song about turning good girls bad, which Pete compliments with a song of his own about every relationship and affair ever, writes about memories and shared mattresses that Patrick doesn’t want to have with him, spite and jealousy all wrapped up in pretty, petty words. If his deer boy doesn’t care about Pete’s feelings for him, fine. If his deer boy deems him to be the bitch in heat that so many other people see Pete as, oh, Pete can give him a taste of that.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” is all Joe says.

“Taking the vowels out makes the song title short enough,” Pete replies, well-aware this is not what Joe meant.

“This is not what Joe meant,” Gabe says angrily, as if he could read Pete’s thoughts. “This isn’t what you mean either, Pete. Man up and talk to your deer boy.”

“Can you all stop calling him that,” Andy interferes tiredly, annoyed that the band is still caught up in Pete’s love drama.

Pete shrugs, ears drooped, tail pressed against his thighs. He talks to Patrick, but Patrick refuses to answer any of the burning questions and pleas. Has it not been enough?

 

 

Back home from the studio, a bored Hemmy demands Pete’s attention. As he walks his pup, watches him excitedly waggle his tail, bounce around, and then drool all over SOB’s latest shirt design – big, bold letters spelling the word _Unleashed_ – he wonders if yeah, maybe he hasn’t given Patrick enough yet. Or maybe, he hasn’t been clear enough. While Pete’s emotions are easily readable from his body language, tail and ears, his _words_ tend to be less clear. Pete has a plan, he has pen and paper and big, shiny words expressing wishes like _me and you_ and _honeymoon_ and waking up next to someone.

He sends a rough draft of it to Patrick, and this time, the radio silence doesn’t bother Pete. The stag is cornered, there is no way of escaping Pete’s elaborate confession because they’ll all work together on this, and Fall Out Boy has studio time booked tomorrow. Pete grins to himself as he puts his sidekick away, then drags Hemmy to the bathtub for some much-needed cleaning.

His deer boy has to understand.

And just to make sure, when they meet up in the studio the next day, Pete proposes Patrick should sing it, too.

 

“The song isn’t done yet, but I know your voice would be a great fit,” Pete says sweetly, tail wagging against his will; he’s just so excited! The thought of his deer boy singing his love song to the whole world is so enticing.

Gabe looks severely awkward und unprepared for the situation. He usually doesn’t mind Pete’s spontaneity, but somehow, he is less easy about it today. “I guess Pete’s right,” he says, unusually cautious in his phrasing and posture. His ears might’ve lost most of their ability to move, but his tail twitches nervously. “And it was fun to sing with you, Patrick. The label liked it, and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind putting you on one of our singles.”

“You want this to be a single,” Patrick repeats flatly; this is not the happiness Pete has expected. Was the mention of a honeymoon too much? Did Pete overdo it? Why, why isn’t his deer boy answering?

Everyone in the band stares at him, and Gabe nudges his side more harshly than strictly necessary, growls: “Fucking _tell_ him, Pete.”

Not very eloquent under pressure, Pete just blurts out the next best thing that comes to mind. “I wrote the song with _you_ in mind, deer boy,” he says hastily, and grabs Gabe’s thigh to keep himself steady. “Come on, please… You know what that means, right?”

Patrick pales. Every color except the specks of freckles drains from his face, leaving it a ghostly white. There’s a long, awkward stretch of silence; Pete presses his tail closer to himself, slides closer to the comforting shape of his best friend next to him, fearing rejection from Patrick.

Patrick gets up, still white and wide-eyed, but every inch of his tiny frame radiates pure, unabashed anger. So much that Pete and even Gabe, Joe and Andy instinctively duck their heads, press ears and tails as close to them as possible. It looks like Patrick is ready to smash his fists into the nearest face and break whatever bones are foolishly close to his antlers.

 

His deer boy’s silence is the worst sound Pete has ever heard.

 

Without any further word, Patrick is out the door before anyone can hold him back, slamming the door shut with way too much force.

Everyone just stares at the door, but Patrick doesn’t come back.

“What the hell,” Joe whispers softly, running a hand over his bunny ears.

“What the hell indeed,” Gabe repeats in a loud growl as he shoves Pete away from him. “Pete, what the hell, explain –“

Pete shoves back, even though with his unimpressive body size, he stands no chance against Gabe. “I didn’t do anything, I don’t know -!”

General yelling and squabbling follows as every band member talks over one another in anger and confusion, until the door opens again. They turn their heads, expecting Patrick to be back.

It’s Vicky who is in the door frame, black panther ears raised, tail swinging from left to right, and she looks like a predator that just knows their weak, injured prey won’t be able to escape them. Her smile is more like baring teeth. “You have two minutes to explain yourself,” she says, licks over her sharp teeth, “or I’ll piss on everything you love, then set it on fire, then piss on it again.”

Pete swallows.

 

 

Explaining the whole mess takes more than two minutes, but Vicky demands the details. She listens carefully, shaking her head once in her while as she sighs heavily. “You two are an utter mess,” she says sourly, reaching out to tug at Pete’s ear just enough to make him yelp a little. “So, you like Patrick?”

Pete nods eagerly, and so does the rest of his band.

“Good. You will tell him exactly that. _Now_. You’re coming with me, and then the two of you will finally talk this out like two grown men. I can’t stand your stupid drama anymore.”

Pete would very much like to object, but Vicky’s fingers are now pinching his ear, and all his bandmates look at him like they agree. Which they probably do.

Vicky narrows her eyes when she notices Pete’s hesitation. “It’s now or never,” she says in a low, menacing voice. “You’ve used up all your chances, puppy. If you don’t fix this now, you’ll lose Patrick. And if you hurt him again, I’ll make sure you will never come near my friend ever again, you understand?”

“Don’t forget the piss and arson,” Gabe interjects, and Vicky nods like she’s meant it as a serious threat. Pete isn’t willing to find out.

 

 

Vicky drags him out of the studio, and back to Patrick’s office. She ignores the shut door and the “no!” that is yelled when she knocks, and just pushes Pete into the room. Patrick has his back turned to them, just turns his head to glare at the intruders with annoyance, then anger. Who knew that big, baby blue eyes could be so scary-looking?

“Get that puppy out of here.”

“This _puppy_ will explain everything, I promise. You two will talk it out, now, like grown adults are supposed to do,” Vicky says, and her calm, cool voice and the trust that Patrick must have in her already actually makes him nod. Well, she doesn’t look like she would accept any other answer anyway. “When I’m coming back, you better have this shit solved. Remember, _words_ , Patrick.”

And then Pete is alone with his deer boy.

The tension drains the air from his lungs; at least, Patrick has turned around to face him, arms crossed, head lowered, antlers pointing towards Pete. What was once a threatening gesture in Pete’s eyes now comes off as scared, as a need to protect oneself, a defensive mechanism rather than getting ready to launch an attack.

On instinct, Pete takes a step forward; he wants to solve conflicts with big hugs and body contact and maybe some teasing words.

“Stay the fuck away,” Patrick orders sharply, his big deer ears twitching nervously.

“Why?” Pete asks, not without hurt in his voice. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t – I can’t do this anymore!” Patrick yells, any sort of composure lost now. “I can be your producer, fine, I can help you get fame and fortune, and _fine_ , I can grit my teeth and see you and your band play songs to serenade strangers, I can give you almost everything but fuck, I cannot give you _my own voice_ to sing a _love song_ for someone else. I cannot – I just can’t. You’re so fucking cruel for even daring to ask – is it fun for you to hurt me like that? To reject me by parading around the love for someone else in one of your songs, no, a fucking _single_ , even? Do you think my feelings for you are so ridiculous they need to be mocked like that? Is that what you have in mind – to punish the stupid deer boy for daring to fall for you, for daring to hope, for…”

Patrick’s voice breaks off, and Pete’s heart breaks with it.

“The song is for you,” Pete stutters slowly. “It’s _your_ song, Patrick. I wrote it about you, and that’s why I wanted you to sing it – because it’s written just for you. Me and _you_ , my deer boy.”

Patrick stares at him, wide-eyed and confused. “What?” He whispers weakly, pink lower lip still quivering. “But – but what about Gabe?”

“ _Gabe_?” Pete repeats incredulously, scratching his ear in confusion until it hits him like a train. “You thought – oh my God. Fuck. Fuck, no.” He hastily holds up his arms in defensiveness, and for the first time, it dawns on him why Patrick felt so insulted. Sure, all he ever did with Gabe was to fool around for fans and publicity, but it’s not like he exactly cared to make it look like just friendship. “Look, Gabe and I are best friends, he’s my best buddy in the whole fucking world but never, never ever have we or will we be involved romantically. It’s just… Y’know. For the fans. And to piss off the people who call us faggots.”

With his hands balled into fists, Patrick stares at him with anger and disbelief. “But you hug him,” he growls, “you hug and touch him all the time, and you _kiss_ him, you kissed him right in front of me and your whole fucking audience, explain that!”

Pete’s face heats up with embarrassment. “I was angry, and I made a mistake,” he admits, ears and tails flat on his body to show their owner’s distress, “but the kisses don’t mean anything. And I hug and touch a lot of people, because that’s just how I am. Not everyone is a jumpy deer like you!”

Patrick’s big eyes narrow, nothing but blonde lashes and black pupils. “For the last time, I am a _stag_!”

“Fine,” Pete scoffs, and he is having a hard time suppressing a frustrated scream, “a jumpy, shy, reclusive _stag_ then, and I don’t mind that, but I’m not like you. I’m touchy and I don’t know personal space and I like to hug and kiss my friends with no romance involved whatsoever, just because I like to do so. It comforts me, okay?”

Patrick shakes his head. “When I came to see your concert… You kissed Gabe to hurt me.”

“I thought you wouldn’t care,” Pete mumbles, playing around with his paw charm necklace, “because you have that fox guy of yours to kiss.”

“His name is Michael,” Patrick says irritated, his ears twitching again, the black tip of his nose wrinkling in disapproval. “And we are friends. With… with benefits, I guess. But that’s it.” He takes a deep breath, bites his lip, but decides to speak up again. “See, I was lonely, I was convinced you and Gabe were an item or at least that you had no interest in me, so I decided to at least have some harmless fun with a friend I can trust. When you reacted so weird, I got so irritated, and then you just fucking _grabbed_ my antlers and I saw red.”

“Sorry for doing that.” Pete lowers his head, gives Patrick the best puppy eyes he can muster. “As said, I’m not always the best with recognizing other people’s boundaries. But now that I know, I vow to never do it again, I swear! I’d never want to hurt you.”

There’s a soft nod from Patrick, which Pete considers as forgiveness. It gives him the courage to speak up again and talk about what he really came for.  

“I’m Like A Lawyer… I wrote it about you,” Pete repeats more firmly, “and I want you to sing it because it’s _your_ song, and I want the whole world to know it, let them all know what I feel for you. Actually, _all_ the lyrics I sent to you are about you, each and every single word because you’re all I can think about, because you’re all my heart wants, because –“

Pete doesn’t get to finish the sentence; Patrick’s lips silence him.

 

The kiss is shy and short, soft and inquiring lips brushing against Pete’s like two black and pink rose petals, a hesitant hand resting on Pete’s hip. Patrick pulls back, doe eyes staring at Pete questioningly, mouth parted, and Pete kisses away any questions or doubts before Patrick can even voice them.

This time, it’s more passionate, with more confidence on Patrick’s side as well; one hand clutching into Pete’s hoodie to draw him closer, the other running up Pete’s back, then fisting into his hair. And his lips, his odd, beautiful lips feel so good pressed against Pete’s, warm and hungry, yet tender and careful. When the tip of Pete’s tongue starts exploring foreign two-colored territory, Patrick moans quietly, lets out a breathy little sigh that’s hotter than any ecstatic screaming could be.

 

When they break apart, pink overshadows the golden freckles on Patrick’s face, his lips shiny from spit. “I can’t believe this,” he mumbles, and it looks like he is torn between anger and laughter, “I fucking can’t believe this – why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Why didn’t _you_ just tell me?” Pete asks back, trying to pout, but the smile on his lips is stronger. “Why did you keep pushing me away? Why give me such a hard time?”

It looks to adorable when Patrick furrows his brows and holds up his fingers to count off his arguments like a scolded schoolboy. “First off,” he says, wagging his index finger, “how the hell was I supposed to know you like me from those darn cryptic lyrics that you sent me with zero explanation?” Holding up another finger, he adds: “Secondly, you’re rather shitty at displaying affection if your understanding of that is being totally vague, or to just grab my antlers like I’m some sort of wild animal. And also…” Patrick holds up a third finger, but he loses some of that prior confidence. “Also, I just… Why me, Pete? I mean… You could just… Have someone, no, _anyone_ else.”

Pete can’t help but grin; there’s a compliment somewhere in there and by now, he has learned how his deer boy ticks. “You’re also rather shitty at showing affection if your understanding of that is hiding it in insecurity and accusations.”

At that, Patrick blushes even more, sticks out his lower lips and lowers his head until his antlers almost bump Pete’s head. They don’t, and they won’t, that much Pete knows by now. He lightly taps Patrick’s chin, gently motions him to look up and meet his eyes again.

“I just want _you_ ,” Pete whispers warmly, hand now carefully caressing his deer boy’s heated cheek. Patrick’s lashes flutter as he hesitates; but then, he shifts, leans into the touch, rubs his freckled skin against Pete’s palm. It looks like he wants to say something, Pete can basically see the snark on Patrick’s pretty parted lips, and in any other situation, he would have fun to exchange banter. But not right now, when his heart is raw and open and when he still isn’t really sure if his shy stag is really his, won’t retreat into solitude and silence again, when Pete isn’t entirely sure if Patrick really wants the big, brash puppy waltzing into his life yet again, demanding more space than his deer boy might be willing to give.

A gentle hand on his head interrupts his train of thoughts, and when it scratches just the right spot behind his Labrador Retriever ears, Pete relaxes. Patrick smiles, he must’ve sensed that maybe, lowering his antlers both for real and in a metaphorical sense isn’t quite appropriate here. Instead, he keeps petting Pete, and leans in for another sweet, sweet kiss.

When Patrick breaks the kiss, he seems hesitant about doing so, but determined to talk nonetheless. “Wait, Pete,” he pants, eyes blinking as if he tries to remember something. “Ah, words – right, uhm. I… I want you, too. Just so that’s clear. I want you, I want me and you together and no one else, okay? I mean – I –“ Patrick presses his lips shut, looking angry with himself, and it brings Pete pure pleasure to finally, finally be able to lean in and kiss that frown away from those black and pink mouth.

“Me and you,” Pete repeats softly, “like in my lyrics – will you sing that for me now?”

“You bet your ass that I won’t let anyone else sing _my_ love song,” Patrick growls, and his hands clutch into Pete’s hoodie again, hauling him closer, and the spark in his doe eyes dares Pete to close the distance between them again. “I’ll do more than just sing that.”

Another bright grin lights up Pete’s face. “Really,” he asks innocuously, grinning even wider when a pout hushes over his deer boy’s lips again, “show me, please?”

Patrick mutters something that sounds like the beginning of a half-hearted objection before he realizes Pete is playing him; he shakes his head, antlers carefully kept away from his puppy, and can barely hide the smile behind a scowl.

“Fine,” Patrick scoffs, and damn, he really _is_ terrible at displaying affection, he’s still dressed in a pile of mismatched worn-out shirts and jackets, he still has a temper, and there’s still these big-ass antlers looming over his freckled deer face.

But Pete wouldn’t trade it for anything else.

And when his deer boy kisses him again, Pete knows he’s made the right decision.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! A kiss! That took some time, but the boys finally got there. Let's see if the kiss solved all their problems, or what other challenges lie ahead of them... 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos, it means so, so much to me. I did something big for the 100, and if this fanfic actually reaches 200 kudos, I will do some bonus art again! ;) 
> 
> Until next time!~


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, welcome to the new deertrick chapter! Last time, our boys finally kissed, so naturally today, we will have some kisses, a date, some misunderstandings, antler-biting, and maybe the first bit of smut? You gotta find out for yourselves... :)
> 
> Also, thanks so much to everyone for the 200 Kudos! This is so amazing, and you're all the best and I love and appreciate you so much! <3 Last time, I did one big art piece so this time, I decided to do a few smaller ones instead - some are included in the chapter, others can be found on [my tumblr. Head over for all your deertrick cuddles & kisses!](http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/tagged/deertrick)  
> And I still have the color version of Deertrick in Sweetslands left for some extra artwork for next chapter... ;)
> 
> Also, check out   
> [the fanart that @data-dork drew for this fic!](https://data-dork.tumblr.com/post/179365410098/heres-another-inktober-piece-this-time-a-grumpy) The cutest grumpy little stag! <3 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for beta reading!

 

 

 

 

“Congratulations, Patrick!”

 

Vicky and Patrick are sitting in his office for their usual shared breakfast, and Vicky toasts to him with a cup of coffee. Patrick raises his – filled with cappuccino – and smiles shyly.

It’s still early (at least by Patrick’s standards), so he takes a big sip of that cappuccino. It’s not as sweet as expected, but the caffeine is much appreciated. He licks the foam away from his lips, then simply says: “Thanks.”

The truth is, he is very happy to have Vicky here, she’s his rock and his most trusted friend, and she deserves some quality time with him that isn’t all pouting and being needlessly complicated as he pines for a puppy.

So, Patrick has made sure to buy some quality breakfast, and enjoys the leisurely time together with her. He still can’t help being just a tiny bit of a show-off as he throws around phrases like “it’s actually a panino, because, y’know, it’s just one, and _panini_ is the plural,” relishes in his vastly improved pronunciation of words like “prosciutto” or “parmigiano” and of course, the food comes from that authentic little Italian bakery Pete found for him on the internet.

“Romanic languages are fun. I’m going to learn French next,” Patrick announces as he bites into his panino. It tastes utterly divine, and he can’t wait to try those sweets afterwards.

“I bet you are,” Vicky answers with a wink and a dirty grin, which Patrick almost manages to ignore. “I’m just happy that you and the puppy finally, _fucking finally,_ worked things out. Seriously, it was about time.”

Patrick shrugs half-heartedly, still slightly embarrassed, but he’s too freshly in love to be really mad at the remark. “I’m happy too,” he answers, unable to bite back a goofy smile. “Thank you, for everything.”

“I can’t help out all the time,” Vicky says thoughtfully, “you’ll have to manage this relationship yourself. I mean, of course I’m your friend and I’ll always be there for you, but I can’t and won’t solve every little issue and every little misunderstandings you guys may have. You and Pete both need to learn how to work those out yourselves.”

“I know…” Patrick sighs, then shakes his head. “But Pete and I are on a good path. We – we will work this out. I want to give it my best, I really do.”

Vicky leans over and ruffles his hair. “You’re both idiots,” she says with a soft smile that belies her harsh words, “but I trust you. Just… Keep going, and don’t forget the lessons you learned. Like using your _words_ to communicate.” She reaches for one of the ricotta-filled pastries. “Hey. Wanna split that?”

With a big grin, Patrick nods. “I sure do.”

 

It’s afternoon by the time Patrick’s work schedule has cleared up, which is unusual for him. But he’s taking the rest of the day off, and the reason for that is a very excited, very pretty puppy guy who just sent him a horribly typed text message to announce he’ll be _“@ yr office in 5 xxx”._ All of Pete’s eloquence seems to be reserved for his poetry.

Whatever, what matters is that Pete will be in his office soon, and this time, it’s not for business. This time, Pete is here as Patrick’s _boyfriend_ , a fact that Patrick still needs to get used to. It all happened so fast, and despite the almost sleepless night, he’s barely had time to think any of this through.

Patrick sighs, tries to focus on what little he knows. And what knows from experience that with his full-sized antlers, it’s just easier to kiss someone who’s smaller than him. Sadly, he’s rarely met guys that meet said criteria, and Pete is no exception. So, Patrick sits on his desk, nervously swings his legs back and forth, runs a hand through his hair, wonders if Pete will accept this one of many restrictions that a partner with antlers will bring into the relationship.

 

There’s a knock on the door and when it opens, a puppy storms inside – an actual one; Patrick recognizes Hemmingway, Pete’s loyal bulldog, who jumps up at his legs, all excitedly. Patrick pets him while Pete follows his dog into the room.

And when Pete breaks out into a big smile upon seeing him, Patrick stops worrying. He opens his arms and Pete comes over, gently motions Hemmy aside, then leans in for a kiss – he too is learning fast on how to deal with a boyfriend that comes with a huge pair of antlers.

 

 

When they break apart, Patrick smiles and wants to get up, but Pete isn’t done. He rubs their noses together, and before Patrick can protest, another kiss silences him. Afterwards, Pete just grins as he nuzzles his nose into the curve of Patrick’s neck, tail wagging and ears perked up under Patrick’s hand.

Admittedly, Patrick has to learn how to handle his new boyfriend as well. Pete just doesn’t look like a puppy, he certainly behaves like one as well. Always touchy and affectionate, kisses and hugs and holding hands and just in constant search of body contact and attention. It’ll take some time to get used to that.

“Missed you,” Pete whispers affectionately as he slings his arms around Patrick.

“It’s been less than 24 hours,” Patrick objects weakly, because he can’t deny a certain truth in Pete’s words.

It doesn’t matter anyway, as Pete seems unfazed by his words, tail still wagging as he clings closer. Patrick is pretty sure that if Pete were a cat, he would actually purr.

Their hug is interrupted when Hemmy barks indignantly over the lack of attention. Pete laughs, lifts up his puppy to give him an affectionate kiss to the forehead. The two of them look adorable, and Patrick can’t suppress a smile.

“He’s such a good boy,” Patrick hums as he pets Hemmy’s soft fur. Hemmy barks in agreement, waggles his tail in synch with his owner as Patrick keeps petting him. That is, until he notices Pete’s raised eyebrows and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Did I say something wrong?” Patrick feels his ears twitch, and the first dawn of a blush spreads over his freckled face. “Uh, is good boy, I don’t know… Offensive to you? Because, you’re a dog, and…” Helplessly, Patrick gestures towards Pete’s ears, blushing further. Pete sets Hemmy down despite the pup’s protest, crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“I’m a good boy too, y’know,” Pete says with the most ridiculous pout on his lips, “where’s _my_ praise?”

Patrick breaks into a small laugh, because he is sure Pete is joking. When Pete doesn’t laugh though, Patrick reconsiders the joke angle.

“You can’t be serious,” Patrick says in disbelief; mostly about himself because if he’s being honest, he very much believes that Pete is serious. “Are you kidding me? Pete, this isn’t funny. You can’t really want me to call you a good boy. You’re not an _actual_ dog, and that is ridiculous.”

“Why?” Pete’s tail stops wagging, and he cocks his head. “Am I not a good boy?”

“No – wait, I mean, yes, but –“ Patrick sighs heavily, pinches the bridge of his nose as he searches for words that are appropriate for the situation, and won’t cause another fight by riling Pete up. “I don’t know if I feel comfortable calling you that. Doesn’t it feel demeaning?”

Pete raises his brows. “Do you mean it as an insult?”

“No, I’d never!” Patrick is quick to deny, only to hesitate. Well, calling Pete puppy hasn’t always been respectful either. “And I don’t mean puppy as an insult either,” he hastily adds, “but I’ll stop calling you that if you want me to.”

Leaning forward, Pete pecks a kiss to Patrick’s lips. “I don’t.”

Patrick mumbles something about Pete still not being an actual dog, but forgoes the fight for more kisses. He could really get used to this.

 

Afterwards, Pete straightens his shoulders. “Allow me to take you out on a date.”

“A date?” Patrick raises his brows, slightly irritated at Pete’s sudden serious behavior. “Why does that require so much formality?”

“Because things are never easy with us, deer boy.” Pete sighs, crosses his arms, and his tail has stopped wagging.

Patrick frowns, an objection already on his lips, but no matter how much he wants to protest, Pete has a point. The past has clearly shown that already.

“You know what dating me means, right?” Pete asks softly, big puppy eyes looking at Patrick expectantly. Damnit, Patrick would much rather kiss him than to talk about the inevitably bad things ahead. “I’m no Britney Spears, but I’m kind of a celebrity, and, well, maybe I’ve enjoyed the attention it got me. Either way, people know me. People take pictures of me, whether I want to or not, whether I agree or not. People will take pictures of me and you, and they won’t ask for permission or sign any papers before publishing them, before talking about them, and talking about us.” Pete shifts nervously from one feet to the other, ears pressed against his flat-ironed hair. “And while I respect your need for privacy, it’s simply something I won’t be able to give you.”

Uncomfortable silence lingers between them. In lieu of an answer, Patrick nervously drums his fingers on the desk. Sure, it has crossed his mind, somewhere in the distance, too far-off and surreal to ever merit a serious thought. Until now.

 

“And also…” Pete clears his throat, lowers his head a little to pull the puppy eyes at Patrick. “Would that mean I have to keep our relationship a total secret? Yeah, we don’t need to make spectacle out of it, that’s fine, but… You’d never be with me when we go to an award show? Always keep yourself hidden? Never sing with me on stage, come visit me on set for the music videos, or give me a celebratory kiss when Fall Out Boy is gonna win all the awards? And am I not allowed to show my feelings for you in any way in the public?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick says helplessly; his head is pounding, and the weight he feels on his shoulders does not come from his antlers. “That’s… a lot of questions, Pete. I don’t know if I can answer them all today. Can I – can I think about it?”

Pete scoffs, the scowl on his lips only disappearing when Patrick takes his hands, gently draws him closer. The puppy in Pete wins out, and with a grin, he cuddles up to Patrick. And when Patrick feels the warmth of Pete’s breath against his neck, sees Pete’s tail wagging excitedly, hears the puppy (badly) hum the melody that Patrick had suggested for I’m Like A Lawyer, defiance wells up in him. Why should he keep this hidden? Who would dare to make fun of them, and if anyone does, why should Patrick give any power to those assholes? No, he didn’t accept Pete’s heart only to lock it away behind golden doors, never to be seen by anyone.

“You won’t be bothered?” Patrick mumbles into the faux fur of Pete’s SOB hoodie. “When people talk shit about us for, well. Being gay. And one of us being, well, me. A _deer boy_.”

“ _My_ deer boy,” Pete corrects him, and Patrick hears him chuckle, feels a wet, sloppy kiss pressed to his throat, then his cheek, then his mouth. When their eyes lock, Pete’s have lost the playful puppy coyness – their ember glows with determination. “Everyone thinks I’m gay already anyway, so what. And I won’t let anyone talk shit about my boyfriend. I can’t protect you from bad press, but I will defend you with everything I have, and I know so will my friends. And yours too, by the way.”

Hm, that sounds – actually, it sounds surprisingly encouraging.

“No need to rush. We can do it step by step. Do some exposure therapy. See where you want to set boundaries.” Pete’s grin widens, and he nudges his nose against Patrick’s, unbothered by the miffed look it gets him. “And for now, no one will know it’s _you_ , _the_ Patrick Stump. You still have that part of anonymity left.”

Patrick slowly nods, plays with Pete’s soft ears in his hands. It all makes sense, and it all sounds surprisingly similar to what Vicky has been preaching to him for years now. Not only Vicky, but Travie, too, not to mention his recent talks with Brendon and William. It may be time to take a jump into the cold water. With Pete at his side, Patrick feels strong enough to overcome his fears. One at a time, and maybe it won’t always work out, but if there is one thing Patrick is sure of, it’s Pete’s fierce loyalty and surprising seriousness when the circumstances require it. The puppy isn’t just tacky clothes and bad puns, even if it took Patrick a while to see that.

“I don’t want to hide all the time,” Patrick mumbles, almost irritated at how much he means it. Maybe this has been bubbling up for a while now. “And I don’t want to hide us. You know I won’t be your trophy boyfriend and I won’t be like Gabe, I don’t like publicity stunts and interviews and your weird photoshoots. But… I want to be there for you. I want to kiss you without worrying. And if I help your band get an award, I damn well better be there to see you accepting it.”

Pete laughs, leans in to kiss the back tip of Patrick’s nose. “It’s a start.”

“It’s a lot already,” Patrick mumbles as he wipes over his nose. “Now, I believe there was some mention of a date?”

 

 

Half an hour later, Patrick finds himself in Lincoln Park with an incredibly excited Pete babbling about their shared hometown and how close they grew up together. Pete calls it fate, and Patrick bites back a comment over coincidences; he will let Pete have this one.

“And did you know this used to be the city graveyard until the 1860s?” Pete is still babbling, clearly proud of his knowledge of Chicago trivia, “oh, and should we go to the zoo? No, wait, not with Hemmy… Or just take a walk? Sit down? Skip stones at the lake -?”

“Enough, Pete!” Patrick holds up his hands, and takes a deep breath. He can’t quite keep up with Pete’s pace yet. He’s… He’s out in town with his semi-famous boyfriend and a bulldog, for everyone to see, and he’s had to pick some branches out of his antlers already despite not being here for longer than 5 minutes. This is all a little too much.

“This is all a little too much,” Patrick decides to admit honestly, “let’s just go for a walk, maybe find a nice place to sit, okay? And maybe find Hemmy something to play with.”

Pete hums in approval, then slings his arm around Patrick’s waist. It’s such a natural gesture, yet Patrick can’t help but turn bright red. Pete tries to rest his head on Patrick’s, only to bump against his antlers. “Sorry,” Patrick mumbles, unsure whether he should pry away from Pete’s embrace or not. “Just… Uh, there’s some things I can’t do with my antlers. Like, leaning on shoulders, having you hug me from behind, hectic movements –“

“It’s fine,” Pete interrupts him with a smile, still with seemingly no intention to let go of Patrick. “I’ll learn to work around it.”

Patrick’s first instinct is to object, to deny, to pull back and lament the long list of activities he can’t do with his antlers, to show Pete how bad of a partner Patrick might be, but then Pete kisses him, and he looks so carefree and happy that Patrick stays silent. It’s not like his antlers come as a surprise to the puppy, and if Pete says he will learn to work around them, shouldn’t Patrick trust that?

He decides to do so, and then Hemmy’s barking distracts him as he demands to have his stick thrown again.

The park is lovely on this early winter day, but Patrick has no eye for the other visitors. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t register any weird looks, scrunched up noses, kids pointing at his antlers. All he sees is Pete’s happy face and wagging tail as they command Hemmy to fetch the stick, as they walk the park hand in hand, all wrapped up in each other, unaware of anyone outside their little bubble. The air is as clear as Chicago air can get, the last rays of sunshine warm Patrick’s face, and the bright-white smile and wagging tail of his excited puppy boyfriend warms his heart.

Eventually, Pete guides them to the Alfred Caldwell Lily Pool, which matches the puppy’s whimsical needs perfectly. No one is around – or so Patrick hopes – as they sit down next to each other, hand in hand, the picture-perfect cliché of a couple freshly in love matching the idyllic scenery. Patrick wants to make a sarcastic remark, but instead, Pete leans in for a small peck to his cheek.

Hemmy jumps next to Patrick on the bench, receives a few pats on the head, before Patrick turns to Pete. There’s a moment of awkward silence as they smile at each other, which is ridiculous, they’ve known each other for a while and Pete and him have kissed before. Patrick’s ears twitch in anger, he hates being nervous and insecure.

Then, something – someone – is pulling on Patrick’s antlers.

Patrick immediately turns around, ready to yell, only to find Hemmy trying to snatch the bones on his head.

“What the hell?” Patrick stands up, highly irritated. “Pete, what the hell is your dog doing there?!”

Much to his dismay, Pete is laughing; he tells Hemmy off, then grabs the dog to seat the puppy next to himself. “Don’t tell me this is the first time this happened to you,” Pete chuckles, ignoring Patrick’s growing irritation.

“I’m sorry, I don’t usually have dogs hanging onto my antlers,” Patrick hisses, instinctively reaching for them. He’s sure there’s saliva there somewhere and as sweet as Hemmy is, his spit is not.

“Dude. Dogs love antlers!” Pete looks at him like that’s some sort of common knowledge. If it is, why has Patrick never heard of it before? Then again, he hasn’t spent much time around actual dogs. “They’re just so chewy… their texture is perfect!”

“I’ve heard a lot of things about them, but this is surely the greatest nonsense so far.” Patrick scoffs, stroking over his antlers again, then makes sure his hat sits securely on his head.

Hemmy barks, as if he knew his opinion is being disregarded. Pete keeps him from snatching another bite from Patrick’s antlers, then continues: “Dogs love chewy toys, and Hemmy is no exception. I usually give him some bones to chew on, but… Now that he got used to you, he must’ve taken a liking to your antlers.”

“Well, _I_ don’t like it,” Patrick says weakly, not sure if he should feel flattered or insulted. Carefully, he sits down again, keeping a distance to the excited bulldog. “What’s there to like about chewing my antlers?”

Pete’s grin widens. “Let me bite ‘em and I’ll tell you.”

“No fucking way!” Patrick leans back, head tilted enough to use his antlers to keep Pete at bay. “That’s – don’t make fun of me like that!”

Pete holds up his hands, tail pressed close to his body. “I’m not, I swear! But now that I’m used to them, I’m just… Curious!”

“Nobody is chewing on my antlers. And may I remind you again, you’re not an actual dog, just a weird puppy guy with Labrador Retriever traits.”

Pete shrugs, certainly not entirely agreeing. Before Patrick can further lecture him about antlers, Pete gets up, and extends a hand to him. “Let’s get some real food then,” he says with a big grin, “I found the perfect place nearby…”

 

 

Said perfect place turns out to be a small, adorable Italian ice cream parlor. Pastel-colored décor and dark wood dominate the shop interior, and the counter offers display about two dozen different sorts of gelato, all of which sound heavenly.

“These look utterly divine,” Patrick whispers as he stares at the ice cream with hungry eyes, resisting his urge to press his black-tipped nose against the glass. “How’d you know I love gelato?”

Pete laughs, until a glare gets him to hide it behind a cough. “Took a wild guess,” he says with a shit-eating grin, “glad it paid off.”

If it weren’t for all these delicious choices of ice cream right in front of him, Patrick would try to defend himself – he’s not _that_ easily readable, okay? He forgets his embarrassment when Pete urges him to translate the Italian signs on the ice cream, and can’t deny a sense of pride at Pete’s admiration.

“Your language skills are amazing,” Pete says as they slip into the booth, “I can barely keep up with English!” He hushes Hemmy under the table, where the pup curls up to their feet.

“I wouldn’t worry about your way with words,” Patrick says as he sits down, happy to find that he can lean back a little to rest his head against the back of the bench. His antlers are to shed soon and truthfully, he can’t wait. His neck and back hurt after the walk in the park, sore from the weight, and the giant antlers force Pete into the opposite seat; no chance of comfortable eating while they sit closely next to each other.

A hand on his stops Patrick’s worries. Pete smiles as he laces their fingers together, rubs his thumb over the back of Patrick’s hand in a soothing way. It’s a much-appreciated gesture, and Patrick hopes his smile can express the gratitude he feels.

The waiter (an old grumpy man with messy cat ears and a matching tail) places their ice cream and coffee in front of them, and smiles a little irritated yet politely when Patrick practices his Italian phrases of politeness on him. He also doesn’t seem to recognize Pete, which is secretly a big relief to Patrick. Today has been exciting enough already.

The gelato looks not only mouth-watering, but like a little work of art as well. Scoops neatly arranged in a kitschy glass bowl, all on a silver platter with matching antique kitschy silver spoons. As if the ice cream wasn’t amazing enough already, it’s topped off with whipped cream drenched strawberry syrup, beautifully decorated with various berries. A pure piece of culinary paradise. Patrick is in heaven.

With gusto, Patrick digs into the ice cream, moaning his approval when the first spoonful of it delivers heavenly sweetness to his taste buds. And the next few bites taste as delightful as the first one. Once Patrick has sampled the different flavors of ice cream, he looks up to see if Pete is equally pleased.

Only now does he notice Pete’s nervousness. He’s holding the spoon in a tight fist but hasn’t taken one bite yet; he keeps staring at Patrick with wide eyes, tail and ears raised, lower lip caught between his teeth. “Good?” He inquires softly, anxiousness in his amber eyes.

“Not just good,” Patrick answers between two bites, “it’s superb!”

Pete’s ears perk up, and his tail waggles excitedly. The saccharine smile Patrick’s answer gets him is almost as sweet as the ice cream they’re eating.

“I’m learning French next,” Patrick declares through a mouthful of berries and ice cream, beaming with pride as Pete reassures him that Patrick will surely do a great job at it.

When their ice cream is finished, Pete reaches over for Patrick’s hand again. “Come home with me.”

Patrick does.

 

 

As it turns out, Pete’s house is the opposite of Patrick’s – it is rather empty, just the bare necessities, and looks like it’s fresh out of the design catalogue Pete no doubt ordered most his furniture from. Which is weird, and not what Patrick expected from Pete at all. There’s no posters or photos on the wall, no neon, no glitter, no tacky interior. If it wasn’t for Hemmy’s toys scattered all over the floor and Pete’s clothes strewn across the couch, Patrick would’ve thought he was in the wrong house.

“I don’t spend much time here,” Pete admits with a shrug as he sits Hemmy down at the dog bed. “Hey, do you want a beer?”

No, Patrick doesn’t.

Instead, he sneaks his hand into Pete’s, draws him closer; he wishes he could just hug Pete from behind, lean his head against Pete’s neck, but his antlers paired with their size difference makes it impossible. Judging from the devilish grin on Pete’s face, he doesn’t seem to mind.

They stumble upstairs, and into Pete’s bedroom. More clothes are scattered across the bed and floor, covered in dog hair. Pete just pushes them off the mattress, then tries to push Patrick into it.

“Careful,” Patrick groans, clinging to Pete to prevent himself from falling down. “You can’t just – I need to make sure to not hit anything or hurt myself. We can’t be too rough while my antlers are at their full size.”  

Pete mumbles an apology, kisses a sorry against Patrick’s neck. With reluctance, Patrick pushes him off; he needs to get the bed ready. He can’t just lay down, his antlers would hit the headboard, and his neck needs the right support if he wants to be comfortable. After a few awkward moments of silently fumbling with the pillows, Patrick feels secure enough to lower himself into the nest of stacked cushions. If he could, he would just pull the blanket over his head, and never emerge again. The situation is utterly ridiculous, and shame heats up Patrick’s face. Who else needs three pillows like an invalid old man? He’s never felt lamer and less sexy than right now, in front of this pretty puppy (who, at some point, has already lost his shirt), clearly displaying all the disadvantages that dating a stag brings with it.

Pete cocks his head, looks at Patrick for a moment, before jumping on the bed. Just as Patrick wants to make an excuse, say sorry, make a self-deprecating joke or push Pete away again and declare all of this a bad idea, Pete silences him with a kiss, lets his index finger linger on Patrick’s lips for a moment afterwards.

“Just tell me what you need,” Pete whispers softly, with a serious, determined look on his face, ears perked up. “I don’t know anything about antlers, but I wanna make it work.”

Patrick’s face heats up, not because he is embarrassed but because he realizes Pete really _means_ it. He isn’t making fun of Patrick, he isn’t annoyed or condescending or showing any other bad reaction that Patrick had been afraid of. It floods Patrick with a rush of warmth, with joy and excitement and the nervous hope things will stay this good between them.

“’s a bit hard for me to move,” Patrick mumbles, his eyes not daring to meet Pete’s. “And you’ll have to be careful, let me handle moving around because I don’t want to accidentally hit you with my antlers. I’ll need you… Need you to trust me on that.”

Pete nods, and from the corner of his eye, Patrick can see his tail starting to wag. “Can I kiss you?” Pete asks, all puppy eyes and excitement.

With a scoff, Patrick crosses his arm in front of his chest, instinctively lowers his head a little. “I’m not a little child, and I’m not made of glass. Of course you can kiss me, dipshit. Just don’t manhandle me and don’t _ever_ try to pull my antlers.”

It earns him a laugh from Pete, one that once would have infuriated him before Patrick got to know his puppy better. Now he knows Pete isn’t being mean or smug, that he isn’t making fun of Patrick, and the kiss that follows only assures that further. Pete ducks down to avoid the collision with sharp bones, connects their lips, slow, wanting, in search of more. Patrick grabs a fistful of black hair, impatiently pulls Pete closer, satisfied at the sweet moan it gets him. His other hand wanders over the tattoo on Pete’s collarbones, pinch Pete’s nipple into hardness, runs over his back down to the small of his back to sneak into his boxers, just a little, just to get a tease, a fleeting impression of what’s beneath.

Pete arches into Patrick’s touch with another sweet moan. Patrick catches it with his mouth, presses black and pink against pink, and his thigh against Pete’s crotch. Just a little, just to test the water, just to tease a little – but his puppy guy is having none of that. With a deep growl and a hint of desperation in his dark eyes, Pete presses closer, his kisses turning hungrier, and the erection between his legs growing harder and harder.

A hand sneaks up to the collar of Patrick’s shirt, fumbling with the buttons. “Off?” Pete pleads as he tugs at the fabric. “Wanna see you. Wanna touch my deer boy…”

Hesitation overcomes Patrick; he knows what’s beneath his shirt. Pale skin that hasn’t seen sunlight in a while, covered in clusters of freckles to match the ones on his face, the soft swell of his stomach covered in more freckles rather than a display of abs or tattoos.

“Please?” Pete inquires, pulling the cutest puppy eyes he can muster, and he sounds so sincere, has been nothing but accepting of Patrick so far, which is why Patrick finds himself nodding slowly. The puppy guy in his lap beams with excitement as he undoes the buttons on Patrick’s shirt, pushes it aside to reveal broad shoulders, delicate collarbones, copper-dusted flesh.

Patrick holds his breath and bites his lips, but doesn’t turn his doe eyes away from Pete like his first instincts tell him to. His defiant glare gets him a soft chuckle as Pete bows down, rubs their noses together.

“You’re beautiful,” he simply says, and kisses away the frown from Patrick’s mismatched lips.

 

 

Then, Pete trails down, tongue mapping out the landscape of freckles. It is unmistakable that Pete is happy, that he is enjoying himself and Patrick’s body, and any remaining doubts would be negated by the way he dry-humps Patrick’s leg like – like the lovesick puppy that he is.

Encouraged by that, Patrick drags Pete up for a kiss, sneaks a hand between them to cup the painfully hard erection that’s pressing against Pete’s ridiculously tight pants. Pete whimpers, puppy eyes full of need, and yet he hesitates.

“Sorry,” Pete pants, ears drooped and his head lowered, “I didn’t mean to – if it bothers you, I can just go jerk off in the bathroom –“

“Like hell you will,” Patrick growls, his ears twinging from hurt pride, “you think I can’t give handjobs?” Pete stutters something in response, but Patrick is already busy with trying to remove the awful bartskull belt. “Off?” He asks with a tentative smile, and Pete doesn’t need to be told twice. A moment later, he has wriggled himself out of his jeans and boxers, and then Patrick has a naked, eager Pete in his arms.

 

They kiss, hungry and desperate, and Pete lets out a hoarse cry when Patrick finally wraps his hand around his aching hard-on. His dick is hot and heavy, twitches under Patrick’s touch, the velvet-smooth head bumping against Patrick’s belly as Pete arches into his fist.

Patrick takes a deep breath and takes another kiss from Pete’s lips to encourage himself. They’ve come this far, and Pete wants him, clearly doesn’t mind any of the flaws Patrick finds in himself, Pete wants him, Pete kisses him again, and with that, Patrick forgets his worries and slowly starts stroking Pete’s cock.

As Patrick soon learns, Pete is just so excitable, responding to every little touch with such enthusiasm that it’s a pleasure just to watch him. Ears perked up again, head buried in the crook of Patrick’s neck, hot breath and delicious moans ghosting over pale skin. The golden curve of his back and his ass, legs shaking a little, and his tail swinging in synch with the roll of his hips as he fucks into Patrick’s fist. It’s beautiful, it’s stunning, and it’s all Patrick’s. He feels himself falling for Pete more and more with each touch, each kiss, each time the flick of his wrist gets another delectable, blissful little moan out of Pete.

“G-gonna come,” Pete stutters, and their rhythm is interrupted when he looks up at Patrick, unsure of how to proceed. Patrick only growls in response, urges Pete to pick up the pace again, he wants his puppy guy to come and if Pete likes rutting against his belly so much, Patrick’s not going to discourage that. It surely makes him feel all funny on the inside, and Patrick’s own cock sure doesn’t mind the thought either, twitching against its fabric restrains at the thought.

Of course, Pete’s a screamer, crying out loudly against Patrick’s neck as he comes all over his hands and stomach in pearl-white waves. Patrick strokes him through it, savors every second of pleasure he can give to Pete until he whimpers from oversensitivity.

Patrick withdraws his hand and Pete collapses on top of him, uncaring of the mess of sweat and semen between them; it doesn’t seem like the right moment for scolding and with how tight Pete clings to him, Patrick thinks it’s best to just hug back.

They stay like that for a while, Pete breathing heavily, Patrick trying not to mind his own cock, still hard and trapped inside his jeans, yearning for more with the solid weight of a pretty puppy guy on top of it. Instead, he keeps petting Pete’s soft ears, runs a hand over Pete’s back only to feel it being hit by Pete’s tail every once in a while.

Just as Patrick wonders if he should push Pete off and offer to just jerk off in the bathroom as well, Pete sits up. There’s newfound determination and desire written on his face, curling the corner of his mouth into a smirk. He’s disheveled, hair a mess and eyeliner a mere smudge of gray left, but he’s still so fucking pretty it makes Patrick’s heart ache.

 

“I can give handjobs too,” Pete whispers, grin widening as he unbuttons Patrick’s jeans. He shoves the pants and boxers down to his knees, stops when Patrick faintly shakes his head. He’s – he’s just not ready for full nudity yet. Pete pouts for about a second, before his eyes fall upon Patrick’s dick, blood-red and curved against his stomach.

“Whoa, that’s fairly impressive…” Pete raises his brows, nods in admiration as he lets a finger trail from the base up to the head, wipes away a drop of precum. “I know they say hung like a horse, but I’d say it’s more hung like a deer, huh?”

Patrick is startled, doesn’t know what to make of Pete’s words so he goes with the first reaction he always has – when in doubt, attack before they can hurt you. “Don’t make fun of me,” he mutters as he props himself up on his elbows, eyes overshadowed by his antlers; he’s naked and sprawled out in bed, already not the best position, and he _knows_ he looks weird, okay, he _knows_ antlers and freckles and all his other traits are a strange sight but he doesn’t need to have his dick ridiculed as well.

For a second, Pete looks irritated and ready to fight back, before he takes a deep breath and pokes at Patrick’s chest. “I meant it as a compliment,” he says with a slight pout, “all I wanted to say was _nice dick, dude_. And c’mon, it _is_ a nice dick. And pretty big, too. There, that’s all I wanted to say – I didn’t mean to make fun of you.”

Patrick sighs, then remembers he’s supposed to use words, too. “Okay,” he mumbles because he’s still hard and Pete is sitting right there on his lap, that’ll have to do for now.

Apparently, Pete agrees, because his mouth is back on Patrick’s, tongue exploring black and pink, one hand sliding up Patrick’s chest, the other sliding down to wrap around Patrick’s cock. Patrick’s close, embarrassingly close, but can’t bring himself to care anymore. Pete tugs at his dick, slow and teasing at first, thumb smearing precum over the head, and his devilish grin only widens at Patrick’s impatient groan.

“Stop playing around, puppy,” Patrick is panting, trying his best to hold his head still as to not accidentally whack Pete with his giant antlers, “I need – I want –“

Patrick doesn’t end the sentence, but it must’ve been clear to Pete what he means anyway. Pete kisses him, wet and sloppy in his eagerness, and the hand wrapped around Patrick’s dick picks up speed. Calloused fingers glide over his length, playfully cup his balls, press and tug and stroke at all the right places, accompanied by a hot mouth pressing kisses to hot skin and Pete’s small, breathy moans. It’s fucking hot to see Pete getting so worked up and excited over pleasing him, to feel his enthusiasm for reciprocating and his earnest intent to give his best. Patrick’s never been loud, but the puppy being so free and easy on the moans encourages Patrick to not bite back every groan and whine like he usually does. Pete’s sheer joy over every sound he gets out of his deer boy sure helps, too. Patrick digs his fingers into the swell of Pete’s ass, and lets go.

When Patrick comes, it’s with Pete pressed close to him, a tight fist around his throbbing cock, it’s with a low groan from the back of his throat and a soft moan from Pete, it’s electric sparks jolting through his body and his heart being flooded with passion and pleasure, it’s with his senses flooded with Pete – the musky scent of his sweat, the  soft lips against his own, the trail of his hands leaving Patrick’s body on fire. It is exactly what Patrick has longed for.

 

For a while, Patrick just lazily strokes over Pete’s thighs, looks up to his puppy with a content smile. Pete grins back, reveling in the admiring gaze. It’s so cute and perfect and Patrick feels like he needs to say something.

“Hung like a _stag_ ,” is what comes out of his mouth, “for the last time, that’s what I am – a _stag_.”

Pete laughs, dark and ugly, and Patrick furrows his brows as he adds: “If you put that on one of your shirts, I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Pete singsongs, clearly not the least bit intimidated despite the big antlers right next to him. Patrick pushes him off, pulls up his boxers and kicks off his jeans, then tries to sit up with an involuntary yelp as pain sparks from his neck. Pete makes big eyes and before Patrick can shush him with an _I’m alright_ , he holds out his hands for Patrick to take. Pride makes Patrick scoff, but his stiff shoulders make him take the helping hands. There’s anger, anger over himself and over appearing weak, worry that Pete might perceive him as pathetic or as if his antlers were a burden – they’re not, _they’re not_ , okay? – but Patrick stops himself from lashing out against the innocent puppy.

“Thanks,” Patrick mumbles instead as he rubs over his neck, “it’s usually not that bad. Only the last few weeks before I shed are a pain in the ass.” Pete nods, ears perked up to signal he’s paying attention, so Patrick decides to answer the question that’s already on the puppy’s mind before he can ask. “I love my antlers,” he adds with pride and defiance, “they’re mine, and they’re me. They may be a bit impractical at times, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything else in the world.”

Pete nods again. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Are you okay with that?” Patrick asks, sudden insecurity dripping from his voice. “I mean… You just got a taste of what it’ll be like to have a stag as your boyfriend. You’ve seen how impractical my antlers can be in many situations, and that’s – that’s just the tip of the iceberg…” He bites his mismatched lips to bite back everything else – about backpain and headaches, about the weird, ugly velvety stumps he’ll have on his head for weeks as his antlers start to regrow, how his antlers will make everything from hugging to making love just a little bit more complicated. Pete will find out for himself soon enough.

Pete seems to sense Patrick’s doubts, because he doesn’t make a bad joke, and doesn’t demand that Patrick should just get over it and stop being bothered. He takes Patrick’s hand, laces their fingers together, a small smile on his pretty lips.

“We’ll make it work,” Pete says with determination, tail swinging as if to underline his words. “I want to be with my deer boy – every part of you, including your antlers. We can do it. And if I’m an idiot about something, tell me so, okay?”

Patrick nods, which apparently doesn’t satisfy the puppy. “I need you to say it, Patrick. You’ll talk to me, okay? Let’s not be the mess we used to be together.”

“I got it,” Patrick answers with just a bit of a frown; he doesn’t like getting lectures. He’s the one to lecture people, not the other way around. “We will both use our words. Satisfied?”

“In every regard,” Pete answers, his smile turning into a dirty grin. Seems like there’s only so much serious talk that an overly excited puppy guy like him can muster.

“We need to clean ourselves.” Patrick eyes the sticky mess on his hands and stomach with increasing displeasure. Pete hurries to get out of the bed, only to return a moment later holding something in his hands. “Baby wipes?” Patrick asks incredulously as Pete hands one to him, but the puppy only nods.

“They work wonders, and they’re good for everything,” Pete explains as he wipes his fingers, “and baby wipes are a lifesaver on tour! Good for sweat, vomit, a quick substitute for showers, and –“

Patrick holds up his (now clean) hands to signal that he’s heard enough. Sleepiness lets him yawn, and suddenly Patrick realizes something. “I have nothing to sleep in,” he states with surprise and a little shock, which only makes Pete furrow his brows.

“Sleep in your boxers?” He proposes, cocks his head. “Or want me to lend you a T-shirt?”

A weak, bitter laugh falls from Patrick’s lips. “C’mon puppy, don’t tell me you haven’t realized it by now. How am I supposed to wear a regular T-shirt with my full-sized antlers?”

Pete opens his mouth, then clothes it. He eyes Patrick’s antlers, reaches out a hand to stroke over the white bones. Patrick hold his breath but this time, Pete has learned his lesson, he’s careful as he trails over the branches, taking in their sheer size and volume. “Makes sense,” he concludes, “I just… Never thought about it?”

Patrick shrugs awkwardly; yeah, even simple things like sharing clothes is out of the question for him most of the time. Not that he particularly approves of Pete’s taste in fashion, but… It would’ve been a nice gesture. It would’ve been cute. It would’ve been what normal, non-antlered boyfriends do.

These thoughts are interrupted when Pete bops his nose, unbothered by the angry glare it gets him. Patrick rubs over his black-tipped nose as he watches Pete rummage through his wardrobe. Eventually, Pete finds a worn-out flannel pajama shirt with buttons, and he beams with pride as he hands it to Patrick.   

Now that he’s clothed, Patrick lowers himself back into the pillows, and a moment later, he has a semi-naked Pete all over him. Seems like Pete prefers to sleep just in underwear (or, as Patrick suspects, naked, if it weren’t for the new company in his bed). Seems like Pete is also a big, big cuddler; he pushes his nose against Patrick’s neck, nuzzles it against his sideburns, smacks a wet kiss to his cheek, all while draping his arms and legs over Patrick until he’s satisfied with his position. Even if Patrick wasn’t impaired by his antlers, he wouldn’t have much room to move. So, he just slings an arm over Pete’s shoulder, surprised by how natural, how comforting it feels.

 

“Good?” Pete whispers, puppy eyes gleaming at Patrick.

“Very,” Patrick says with another yawn, he’s warm and sated and has his long-longed for puppy guy in his arms, he’s happy. Apparently, Pete isn’t, not yet. He raises his brows, points a finger at himself as he keeps staring at Patrick like he expects him to say something else.

Patrick sighs, half-expecting that Pete is making fun of him, but decides to play along anyway. “Yes, you’re good too,” he mumbles, “a good boy. A very good boy, okay?”

Pete breaks into the biggest grin, cuddles closer with a happy giggle, all of it seeming strangely sincere. Patrick keeps petting his ears, and in the silence that lingers between them, he hears the tap tap tap of Pete’s wagging tail hitting the mattress. A sarcastic observation is on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, but he decides to keep quiet; no need to ruin the moment. A dozen thoughts flood his mind – he needs to bring some spare clothes next time, a toothbrush, would Pete let him keep a drawer?

What about work, what about Pete being on tour, how will all of this work out? How and what and if – with Pete in his arms, Patrick can’t bring himself to care right now.  

 

Patrick falls asleep to the sound of Pete’s heartbeat, and the soft tap tap tap of Pete’s wagging tail.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY, some action! Will the boys keep behaving? What about all those obstacles Patrick is worried about - oh, friends, I still have so much planned... Stay tuned, everyone! And don't forget, head over to [my tumblr for more deertrick & art in general!](http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/tagged/deertrick)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and remember, feedback is what keeps a writer going! <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, folks! Thanks so much for all your love and support. I promise I won't abandon deertrick for this long again, it's just that BBB took so much of my time and life just hated me for a bit. 
> 
> Anyway, new chapter! Enjoy!

 

 

 

Fall Out Boy is on set for their next video shoot. This time, with well-known support in the form of Vicky, whom they hired as a director (because fuck it, Pete won’t just let the Panic kids have her talent all to themselves) and Patrick, who, against all odds, has agreed to show up on set and watch the production.

So far, he doesn't seem to be having much fun.

Pete hasn’t seen much of his deer boy, he’s spent his time with makeup and wardrobe and getting the script explained to him, which kind of destroys his romantic idea of having his boyfriend cheering on him while Pete makes another grand entrance into the music video scene. When he finally manages to get away for a moment, he finds Patrick together with Vicky who’s patting his back.

Patrick has somehow managed to nestle a pair of sunglasses onto his black-tipped nose, hiding his eyes but not his slight frown.

 

“They only have frozen donuts at the catering table,” Patrick sneers with a hint of self-pity, to which Vicky only rolls her eyes.  


“Suck it up, Stump. Pay for your own snacks of you don’t like it.”  


For a moment, it looks like Patrick wants to continue the fight, but then he sighs, sheepishly rubs his neck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, ears twitching nervously. “It’s just… Everything.” After Vicky clears her throat, he hastily adds: “The bright lights, the hectic and chaos, and my back is killing me.”

Pete takes pity in his poor boyfriend, who’s been sitting around all day with not much to do and without a proper chair or anything that provides a decent place to rest his antlered head against. Patrick’s antlers make it impossible to stand behind him while he sits, so Pete stands next to him, puts a hand on Patrick’s neck, rubs over it in soothing circles. That gets a soft, appreciative moan out of the stag, who closes his eyes and tries to lean closer. His antlers nearly end up stabbing into Pete’s thigh, but after some trial and error, he rests them against Pete without any injury.

Vicky takes a deep breath, tail swinging nervously, before she pats Patrick on the shoulder. “Hey, I appreciate that you’re here despite, uh, everything. I know you’re trying to be supportive, and you’re doing your best. Thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Patrick mumbles, now with a small smile on his lips. “I’ll stop complaining now, so you can get back to work.”

 

Vicky bops his nose, then she’s gone before Patrick can scold her for it.

 

“What’s with the sunglasses?” Pete asks while Patrick rubs over his black-tipped nose. “If you’re trying to be incognito, you’re doing a rather bad job.” 

“I don't like bright lights.” Patrick sits up again, turns his head away, eyes overshadowed by golden lashes.

If Pete didn't know better, he’d think of Patrick as just being an irritatingly stubborn diva. But he’s spent enough time with the deer boy by now to realize Patrick is hiding something more behind the dark glasses and the frown. “C’mon, you've never worn these before,” Pete tries to argue as he mentally goes through every place they’ve been together – and finding the list alarmingly short. The studio, the car ride before the concert, and the park, ice cafe, his home. Come to think of it, the park was the first and the last place Pete has seen his deer boy anywhere that wasn’t enclosed space and obviously, there still aren't any photographs of the shy stag.

With a sigh, Patrick pushes up his sunglasses. “We’ve never been somewhere so – so bright. And with so many people.”

 

“What about the concert?”

 

“They couldn’t see me there.”

 

“Ha!” Pete grins in triumph as he pokes Patrick’s sideburns. “I knew it, it’s not the lights or anything, it’s just you being insecure again. You could just tell me so next time, I won’t be an ass about it, I’ll -”

 

“It’s my eyes,” Patrick interrupts him annoyed, then he finally looks at Pete, lowers the glasses just enough to let Pete get a good view of furrowed brows, blue irises, and two black pupils, dilated to a vertical line similar to Brendon’s unholy goat eyes.

Surprised, Pete leans in closer to take a double look; but yes, the usually dark, round pupils that give his deer boy’s eyes the mysterious and slightly uncanny beady look are just two black streaks across the ocean-blue of the too-big irises. 

“The hell?” Pete blurts out, “did you trade eyes with Brendon?”

 

“No, dumbass.” Patrick pushes the glasses back up, and nudges Pete with his antlers until he takes a step back. “Deer and goats are flight animals. Like horses. Or sheep. We have similar eyes, I guess. It’s usually not noticeable with me because -”

 

“You’re always in the gloomy insides of your studio?”

 

“No,” Patrick says through gritted teeth, “because my eyes are less sensitive to light. Unless we are, well. Under bright-ass studio lights or whatever.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, and looks away again.

 

Pete won’t be defeated that easily. “But why the freak-out now?”

 

“Because they look even worse than usual,” Patrick insists stubbornly, arms still crossed. “I already got asked four times about my supposed costume and when I show up in the video and what prop designer made my antlers. My neck hurts, I’m half-blind, and I’m useless here on set. That’s enough to deal with.”

 

“Aw, you’re not useless, silly.” Pete maneuvers himself next to his deer boy again, sneaks his hand under the collar of Patrick’s shirt to rub over his neck. “Didn’t you hear what Vicky said? You’re being supportive.”

 

“I don't know about that,” Patrick mumbles, yet he leans into the touch. “I’m just sitting here.”

 

“Sometimes, that’s enough.” Pete withdraws his hand despite Patrick’s protest, positions himself in front of him, but leans in so Patrick won’t have to put more strain on his neck. Pete grins, points to his cheek. “Hey, think you can support me with a kiss?”

 

“You’re silly,” Patrick insists, his even stranger than usual eyes fixed on Pete’s. Still, Pete gets a quick peck on the cheek, and then, Patrick grabs him by the collar to drag him into a real kiss on the mouth.

 

When they part, Patrick chuckles, wipes over his two-toned lips. “I messed up your makeup.”

 

“’s fine,” Pete assures him as he rearranges his hair and straightens his back. “C’mon, wanna watch me and my friends trash the fake hotel room? Vicky just _knew_ what we needed for this video, she’s a genius! She even allowed Hemmy to be in the video!”

 

“She’s awesome,” Patrick affirms with a smile. “Although I can’t say I really like that part with you and Gabe half-naked in front of the sleazy photographer.”

 

“It’s a parody, Patrick. But I’m flattered you're jealous.” Pete offers the stag his hand, despite the glare his comment gets him. Patrick takes the offered hand, lets himself get dragged over to the set where the rest of the band and crew is waiting. Vicky gives them a thumbs up, before turning to one of the prop designers.

 

“I forgot something.” Patrick looks at him over his dark-rimmed sunglasses, and despite the enhanced uncanny vibe of his weird deer eyes, Pete still finds them strangely endearing. He could get lost in that pretty shade of blue that’s usually taking a backseat to the big, black pupils. Patrick clears his throat. “I wanted to say – you look cute. Ridiculous and over the top, but cute.”

Pete raises an eyebrow, tries to play it cool despite his tail wagging and his internal scream of joy over what counts as a compliment in deer boy’s world. It’s worth it for the way Patrick blushes as he stumbles over the next words as he tries to rephrase it properly.

 

“Not ridiculous in a bad way – I mean, it kind of fits you, you know? I didn't mean – damn, forget it. I don't even know. You’re cute, okay? That’s all I wanted to say.” Patrick bites his lip, stares at Pete, anxiously waiting for an answer. Pete thinks his wagging tail says it all, but with his deer boy, he’s learned that words are better. Just to be sure.

  


“Thanks,” Pete says with the biggest grin, “you’re adorable, you know that, my little deer boy?”

  


Patrick furrows his brows, holds up a finger. “I’m a grown _stag_ , and I’m not _adorable_ , I - “

  


Pete doesn't hear the rest of it when he gets dragged away to get his makeup redone; he blows Patrick a kiss, whose frown melts into a smile before he mouths a kiss back.

  
  
  


“You two are disgusting,” Joe says not without a hint of jealousy when they get ordered around on set.

 

“You’re jealous, bun-bun,” Gabe observes while he throws an arm over Pete’s shoulder, “but not as jealous as I am for having to share my best son of a bitch!”  


Pete laughs, his wagging tail stirring up some of the loose feathers around them, before they get shushed as everyone gets ready to shoot the next scene.  


From the corner of his eye, Pete can see a pair of antlers; Pete smiles to himself, knowing that across the room, a two-colored pair of lips is doing the same.

  


Pete thinks his life can’t get any more perfect. The music video is shot, the single about to be released, the promo is doing well and the album is coming together beautifully. Today, he’s heard Gabe and Patrick discuss their work for I’m Like A Lawyer, has heard their grand and imposing ideas for the music and caught a glimpse of Patrick’s beautiful voice as they went over the rough draft. Pete can’t wait to hear it being sung, can’t wait for the finished version to tell everyone how much he’s in love.  


After another exhausting day at the studio and coordinating the legal side of his new label, Pete has finally made it home. But he can’t rest yet. His deer boy has promised to drop by after work, and Pete is pacing the living room, making himself and Hemmy increasingly nervous.

Pete has tried to be a gentleman and invite his deer boy out for another date, though he isn’t too surprised when his reclusive boyfriend declines in favor of a quiet evening in. Pete’s got condoms and lube, or, a great pizza place on speed dial and a copy of Ghostbusters I and II. He’s fine with either option.

They make it halfway through the first Ghostbusters movie, before Patrick gets tired of trying to maneuver making out on a couch with a pair of giant antlers constantly getting in the way. “We should take this to the bedroom,” he grumbles as he apologetically rubs over Pete’s right temple, which just collided with his antlers.

Pete has no objections.  


After Patrick has arranged all the available pillows into a comfortable support for his head and antlers, he holds open his arms for Pete, who doesn't need to be asked twice. A moment later, he’s all over his pretty deer boy, kisses freckled skin, black-pink lips and the curve of Patrick’s neck. Due to his full-sized antlers, Patrick may be slightly limited in his movements, but Pete is more than willing to make up for that. He kisses every inch of skin not hidden under clothes, nudges his nose against Patrick’s, tries to lace their fingers together.

Patrick softly shakes his head – well, just slightly turns it enough to make sure what gesture he is trying to make – and instead, tugs at Pete’s sweatshirt. Pete takes it off, revealing his Pawndestine shirt beneath. Patrick sighs at the sight of the hilarious pun, but smiles nonetheless as he drags Pete into a kiss by his fashionable Sons of Bitches-collar.  


They make out, slow and sensual, until Pete tries to sit up to get rid of his shirt. Patrick holds him back, eyes the black leather of the collar and the charm on it with furrowed brows. “Wait,” he says confused, “that paw thing looks different – it didn’t have a heart last time!”

 

Pete feels how he blushes; he hasn’t expected Patrick to notice. “I re-designed it,” he mumbles as he anxiously stares at Patrick, waiting for a reaction. The deer boy still looks confused.  


“But there’s no heart inside the paw of your shirt!”  


Pete shakes his head. “That’s because it’s a personal design. It’s my paw, and my heart, y’know. That’s not for sale.”  


The confusion on Patrick’s face lingers for another moment, then melts into the sweetest smile. “You’re surprisingly wholesome sometimes,” he chuckles, drags Pete into another kiss, then lets him sit up to get rid of his shirt. Patrick watches as Pete undresses, hesitates, then starts to fumble with the buttons of his own shirt. Pete leans forward again, kisses love and adoration into the freckled skin that’s getting revealed with each opened button, from Patrick’s collar bone to his chest to the soft swell of his stomach. With every inch he wanders further down he expects Patrick to stop him, and Pete would, he absolutely would, but Patrick seems to have no such thing in mind. His deer boy lets Pete continue, lets him lick and suck and kiss every bit of his exposed upper body; tense at first, then growing more and more relaxed and comfortable each time Pete’s eager mouth claims more freckled skin. It makes Pete’s hard beat faster, this is already awesome, but then Patrick fumbles with the button of his jeans, opens it, sends Pete a questioning, slightly insecure look.  


“I think you should take them off,” Pete whispers encouragingly, trying not to sound too desperate.  


“Yeah?” Patrick whispers back, but the insecurity in his eyes has been traded for excitement, and the dawn of a dirty smile. “So should you.”

 

Pete rolls off of him, wriggles himself out of his tight skinny jeans and underwear before he’s back sitting on Patrick’s glorious, naked lap.  


Patrick looks beautiful underneath him, with his big dark eyes looking up to Pete, and the curve of his two-colored smile distorting the freckles on his cheeks. It’s full of trust and comfort, for which Pete takes great pride in himself – to think his shy, reclusive deer boy would ever lay all naked in bed with him, smiling like that! Ah, it’s truly dream come true.

Yet, there’s something else in that smile, something dark and tempting and exciting. Pete leans down to kiss his deer boy, tastes warm lips and the tease of teeth nibbling on his lower lip, feels Patrick’s hands on his back, ready to explore bare, inked skin.

 

“If you could have anything right now,” Pete whispers in a low voice as Patrick’s fingers leave a trail of goosebumps on his skin, “anything, what would you ask me for?”

 

“A back massage,” Patrick answers promptly, not even pausing to think.

  


For a moment, there’s just awkward silence over the unexpected answer. That’s not how Pete pictured this moment would go, and judging by the shock on his deer boy’s face and the way he covers his mouth as if he could take back his words, it’s not going according to Patrick’s plan either.

 

“Forget that,” he mutters behind his hand, “forget that, it was stupid, I didn't mean it – just forget it. Ask again. I’ll say something better. Something sexy. I...” He trails off, looks away, embarrassment painting his freckled face bright pink.

  
Instead, Pete climbs off of him, then motions Patrick to turn around. After rearranging the pillows, Patrick lays on his stomach, peeking over his shoulder.

“I didn’t expect you to take it seriously,” Patrick mumbles as Pete sits on his lower back, ass to ass, his hands on Patrick’s shoulder blades to keep them out of reach for his antlers.

  
“I can stop,” Pete says with a shit-eating grin, not surprised when Patrick turns his head again to send him an angry glare.

  
“Don’t you dare, puppy.”

  
Pete’s grin only widens before he leans down to press a kiss between Patrick’s shoulder blades. “Just relax,” he says, “and, uh, please make sure your antlers don’t poke my eyes out.” Patrick grumbles a little, but then leans his head forward enough to grant Pete full freedom to give the promised back rub.

Slowly and with care, Pete lets his hands wander over more freckled skin, scratches the soft hair at the nape of Patrick’s neck. He starts with the shoulders, which are still tense under his touches, and only slowly start to loosen up under Pete’s massage. It pains him to think about how much pain his deer boy must be under, how much stress and weight his shoulders and spine have to endure with the full-sized antlers sprouting from his head.

  
Under him, Patrick becomes more and more pliant, and the stag lets out soft sighs and the sweetest little mewls and moans the more Pete massages his aching back. Pete’s ears perk up in excitement over these cute sounds of approval, and he doubles his effort just to make sure he gets to hear more of them.

  
Patrick seems so happy and relaxed, and he keeps moaning and then arching his back just in the slightest, which makes Pete wonder if maybe, Patrick wouldn’t mind if this went just a little further. Pete experiments with kisses to pale skin, a tongue trailing down the valley of Patrick’s spine, teeth scraping lightly over the tempting curve of Patrick’s ass.

  
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Pete whispers nervously, hands on Patrick’s hips.

  
Patrick clears his throat. “What do you have in mind?” He mutters into the pillows under his head.

 

“Well, I have this beautiful, sexy guy in bed with me,” Pete hums, his fingers wandering down, “and I have his beautiful, tempting ass right in front of me, and I just wanna eat him up, you know what I mean?”

  
The pillows dull out Patrick’s surprised coughing. When he manages to turn his head a little, his freckled face is bright red. “Y-you’re kidding,” Patrick says in a hoarse voice.

 

“Am not,” Pete replies, underlines his answer by licking a broad stripe over Patrick’s left cheek.

 

Patrick clears his throat again, stays silent for a moment. “I think that’s a bit too much for me right now,” he mumbles eventually, his face still bright red. “Can we start with something simple?”  


With just the slightest bit of disappointment, Pete nods. “Sure. We can just cuddle if you want.”

 

“Oh my God, no.” The deer boy furrows his brows, and as always, his large doe eyes give something comical to his anger. “I don’t want that. I want more. A whole lot more, okay?”

  


Pete chuckles, sits up to reach over to his nightstand to retrieve the lube and condoms. Just in case. Patrick watches, doesn't object to either. Instead, he buries his head in the pillows again, shuffles onto his knees, and arches his back again. It’s a bold move from the shy stag, and Pete swears he won’t spook him by being too impatient or careless.

Instead, Pete resumes to plant soothing kisses to his deer boy’s back, maps out the cluster of freckles with his tongue. He slicks up his fingers, trails one hand down towards Patrick’s ass; he can hear Patrick hold his breath when the tip of Pete’s finger trails over his hole, can feel how his heart starts to beat faster. But Pete also notices how Patrick arches his back again, sees how Patrick puts a hand on his own cock, starts to stroke himself slowly as he pushes back against Pete’s finger with an eager groan.

They take their time, Pete just as nervous as his deer boy. Patrick keeps his head buried in his arms, but he keeps touching himself, moves his hips more and more, finds a rhythm with Pete as Pete works him open. Pete is three digits into him when Patrick takes a deep breath, turns his head a little until his dark doe eyes meet Pete’s.

“Do you want more, too?” Pete asks softly, and he tries not to let out an embarrassing _fuck yes!_ when Patrick nods.

 

“I want you,” Patrick says with a confident, firm voice. “I want you, Pete.”  


Pete hastily leans over to reach for a condom, rolls the rubber over his aching length with shaking hands, glad that at least his dick doesn’t show any signs of the nervousness he’s feeling over his first time with his adored deer boy.

 

“I, uh, I can stay like this,” Patrick offers, awkwardly wiggles his hips a little.

  
At first, Pete is absolutely tempted to just say yes, because Patrick looks utterly enticing with his pretty ass up in the air, his hips ready to be grabbed by Pete’s eager hands and the curve of his freckled back making for a nice view. But there’s something in his deer boy’s voice that’s just the slightest bit off, and Pete knows him well enough by now to recognize it. Not to mention that Patrick still has his face buried in his arms, and the fact that Patrick feels like he needs to hide it makes Pete uncomfortable.

So, he gently puts a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, kisses the nape of his neck. “I wanna look at you,” Pete whispers gently into Patrick’s twitching ear, “I wanna watch my pretty deer boy. If that’s okay with you.”

Patrick stays silent for a moment; then, he slowly turns around to lay on his back. His copper-dusted face is now bright pink, his dark eyes widened, brows slightly furrowed. But when Pete smiles at him, Patrick smiles back, then laughs, and drags Pete into a kiss.

 

“Alright then,” Patrick says with a small smile as he motions Pete to sit between his spread legs, “enough talking.”

  
Pete nods, puts a hand on Patrick’s pale thigh, relishes in digging his hands into the firm flesh. He grabs his dick with his other hand, lines up with Patrick’s wet, stretched entrance. Pete slowly pushes in further, watches Patrick anxiously as he does so. The deer boy’s mismatched, marvelous mouth hangs slightly open, letting out the heavy breaths from his heaving freckled chest. His eyes, overshadowed by the long lashes, are looking somewhere into the distance, while his hands are holding onto Pete as if he might float away if they let go, urging him to keep moving.

Once Pete has bottomed out, he rests his forehead against Patrick’s (making sure not to hit the antlers), hears his blood rush through his veins as his heart beats faster in excitement and nervousness. Patrick brackets Pete’s hips with his thighs, his hands now on Pete’s back, his lips stealing a kiss from Pete’s who still doesn't dare to move; he just kisses back until he hears his deer boy moan, feels the tension vanish from his freckled shoulders as he adjusts to Pete being inside of him.

  
“Mmm,” Patrick groans eventually, his dark eyes now fixed on Pete, “c’mon, puppy, you gotta… Gotta _do_ something.” The demand is underlined by Patrick’s hands wandering down to the small of Pete’s back, urging him to move again.

  
So, Pete follows, matches his pace to the one given by the push of Patrick’s hands and the searching thrust of the deer boy’s hips. Sticking to Patrick’s rhythm makes him feel more secure, and despite the giant antlers limiting Patrick’s moving range, he doesn't seem too keen on being overly passive anyway. When Pete reaches for Patrick’s dick, his hand is batted away. Instead, Patrick slides his own hand between them, starts to stroke himself again as Pete continues to thrust into him.

 

“You’re beautiful,” Pete groans against Patrick’s soft sideburns, watches as the cheeks beneath them turns red. “Fucking stunning,” Pete continues as he trails his lips over heated skin up to the black tip of Patrick’s nose, “and I – ah, I’m so happy to have you...”

  
“Sweet-talker,” Patrick growls back at him without any actual accusation in his voice.

  
Pete kisses the black tip of Patrick’s nose, then grins. “Only the sweetest words for my sweet-tooth deer boy.”

  
“You’re so – oh...!” Whatever banter was to follow, it vanishes as Pete finally manages to angle his thrusts just right, find that spot inside of Patrick that makes him cry out from pleasure, makes him gasp and moan each time Pete’s hips meet his.

 

The shared pleasure of this long-awaited moment is too much; neither of them lasts long. And when Pete feels how Patrick comes, he can’t hold back either. They come undone together, bodies grinding against each other, Pete’s eager lips pressed against the black and pink of Patrick’s.

 

Afterwards, Pete rests his head in the curve of Patrick’s neck, his hips still twinging in the aftershock of his orgasm, unwilling to let it be over just yet. A whimper escapes Pete when he eventually pulls out; he doesn't want to give up on being close to his deer boy. Why can’t these moments last forever?

The worries are soothed when Patrick’s hand ruffles his hair, then scratches his ears. For a while, they stay like that, Pete splayed out over Patrick, who continues to pet him, and who only chuckles when Pete’s now wagging tail hits his thighs.

 

“Good?” Pete asks as he looks at Patrick expectantly. Patrick opens his mouth, closes it, shakes his head as he chuckles again.

  
“Yes,” Patrick says amused, yet sincere, “good. You’re a good boy, Pete. There. You happy?” He laughs when Pete smacks a wet kiss to his freckled cheek, then pushes him off. “We’re all gross and sweaty. Let’s deal with that first.”

Pete shrugs, he has a much higher tolerance for gross stuff and sweat, but he helps Patrick up nonetheless. The poor stag mutters a swear under his breath, rubs over his neck again after he gets up with Pete’s help. Sure, Pete can understand why his deer boy decides to keep the antlers, but he still sympathizes with the pain they must cause him.

Patrick declines the offer of a shared shower, so Pete waits his turn, lays on his bed and listens to the muffled sound of the shower and the small yet unmistakable sound of Patrick humming and occasionally full-out singing in the shower. Yes, Pete could really get used to that.

 

When Pete comes out of the shower, he finds Patrick resting on the couch in the living room, petting Hemmy who’s rolled up on his lap; that alone is adorable enough. What’s even cuter is the blood-red, faux-fur trimmed hoodie that Patrick is wearing, which Pete instantly recognizes as his own. Maybe they can’t share shirts right now (a shame, Pete thinks, he has so many great ideas for deer-related puns) but Patrick still decided he wanted to wear something from him. And such a personal item nonetheless, despite the fact it’s clearly not Patrick’s style.

“I was just cold,” Patrick mumbles when he catches Pete staring. Hemmy barks, like he wants to call out the lie. “And it smells like you,” Patrick adds almost inaudibly as he scratches Hemmy’s chin, “guess that’s why your puppy likes me so much right now.”

 

“Hemmy’s stupid,” Pete says with the fondness only a pet owner can have, sits down next to his deer boy. “He does have great taste in friends though. And in antlers, I guess.”  


Patrick makes a non-committal noise, fumbles with the zipper of the SOB hoodie. It’s already tight on Pete, and too small for Patrick, so Pete makes a mental note to get his deer boy his own SOB merch.  


“It looks cute on you,” Pete grins, nudges his nose against Patrick’s who scoffs in reply.  


“If you say so, puppy.”  


Hemmy gets some more obligatory petting, before he jumps off Patrick’s lap, and trots over to the kitchen. Pete feeds him, then reminds himself he has another potentially hungry guest today.

 

“Hey, deer boy!” Pete yells towards the living room, “you like pizza?”

  
  
  


Half an hour later, Pete sits in front of the couch, munches on his pepperoni pizza while they continue to watch Ghostbusters. Patrick is occupying the couch, now all stretched out and laying on his stomach, big doe eyes fixed on the screen while he eats another slice of his own pizza – Pete wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when Patrick insisted that pineapple is a great topping.

“This is perfect,” Pete declares around a mouthful of pizza, looks over to Patrick, waiting for his approval.

  
“Yeah,” Patrick whispers softly, eyes still on the screen, though he doesn’t seem to pay attention to it. “But Pete… It won’t be like this forever. How will we do this when you’re away on tour? When we might not see each other for days? Weeks? Longer, even?”

 

Pete swallows, and suddenly, there’s a lump at the back of his throat. This isn’t something he wants to think about, but he knows it’s inevitable and he knows Patrick won’t let him pretend he never said anything just now. “You could come visit?” Pete proposes as he draws his knees up to his chest; Patrick still isn’t looking at him.

 

“Maybe,” Patrick says after a while, then sighs. “But I’m busy, too. I can’t travel with you and your band all the time. And what about international tours? That’ll make it even more difficult.”  


Pete pouts, sits up a little to rub his nose against Patrick’s grease-stained cheek. That finally makes Patrick look at him, although the melancholic sadness in his eyes – only furthered by their big pupils and ethereal vibe – makes Pete pout even further.

  
“You’re going to tour the world as a cool rock star,” Patrick continues as he wipes over his cheek, “and I’ll be here in Chicago, in my boring studio, being a boring, unknown producer.”

 

“That’s not true!”Pete nudges his nose against Patrick’s cheek again, ignoring the annoyed huff from the stag. “You’ll be my brilliant, talented boyfriend whom I’ll miss very much. You can come visit. I’ll call you, and you can sing me to sleep. We could video chat! I’ll buy you all the sweets from all over the world to bring you back, I’ll send you photos and words and everything else you want. Well, maybe not a dick pic, Gabe says that’s a stupid idea and the band forbids me from ever doing so, but - “

 

“I get it,” Patrick interrupts him gently, reaches out a hand to pet Pete’s head. “I’ve just never really done long distance with a serious boyfriend before.”

 

“It’ll work,” Pete says stubbornly, “I’ve done this before.”  


“That seemed to have worked out great, given that you’re with me now,” Patrick points out, but Pete shakes his head.

  
“Don’t try to sabotage it before we even tried it. You knew it would come to this, so… Shouldn’t you be willing to try? Or did you just want in for the fun? Or are you chickening out before it gets too serious? Or - “

  
“Hey, now _you’re_ overthinking this!” Patrick sounds offended, and he stops petting Pete. “Just because I worry doesn't mean I’ll just abandon you when it gets difficult. I like you a lot. I want us to work, okay?”

  
“Okay,” Pete mumbles in reply, although he can’t stop his tail from wagging in careful optimism and excitement, especially when Patrick starts scratching his ears again. “Let’s see what’ll work for us. And if we’re being idiots, I have three bandmates with experience in long distance, and I guess you have Vicky to give you a lecture, huh?” Pete counts the laugh he gets in reply as agreement.

  
With a muttered swear, Patrick eventually sits up, rubs over his neck, then pats the now-empty space on the couch. “Come here, puppy.”

 

They end up staying on the couch, Patrick laying on his side, head resting on every available pillow Pete could find nearby, all stacked on Pete’s lap. In truth, it’s not the most comfortable position, and the antlers sure don't make it any easier, but Pete couldn’t care less. It’s worth it for getting to cuddle up to Patrick, for being able to caress his freckled face with the soft sideburns and the sturdy stag ears that Pete usually doesn't get to touch. It’s such an intimate moment, and it finally gives Pete the courage to ask the question that has been on his mind for a while now.

  
“Hey, Patrick. Can I… y’know. Can I try chewing your antlers?”

  
“Excuse me?” Patrick turns his head a little, irritation in his voice. “Pete, please. You’re not Hemmy. And I’m not really liking the idea of any puppy – real or not – gnawing on my antlers.”

  
“Please?” Pete tries his best begging voice and his biggest puppy eyes. “I just wanna try. Your antlers fascinate me. I wanna explore them!”

  
“With your mouth,” Patrick says sarcastically as he pinches the bridge of his nose. For a moment, he just stays silent, and Pete is already afraid he blew his chance when Patrick speaks up again. “Fine. This one time. And only because I’ll shed soon, and I already know you won’t have the patience to wait until they regrow.”

The antlers don't taste like anything, it’s just bone structure. There’s a nice texture to them though, they offer the perfect bumpy yet smooth surface and the perfect grip for Pete’s jaw size. It feels strangely right, like a ritual Pete never knew he was missing. Maybe this is why children suck on their thumbs, or why his dog goes crazy over the bone toys Pete keeps buying him. It’s the right kind of mind-numbing yet strangely soothing activity that Pete could get used to. So, he chews on as they watch the rest of the Ghostbusters movie, and he doesn't even notice he kept on going for so long until the credits roll. With a hint of disappointment he releases the antler from the grip of his teeth; when he looks down, he sees Patrick glancing at him with narrowed, thoughtful eyes.

  
“You’re a weird one, puppy,” Patrick whispers while he rubs over the wet spot on his antlers. “First you’re all afraid, and now you can’t get enough of them?”

  
“I can’t get enough of _you_ ,” Pete replies with a satisfied grin, and Patrick half-scoffs, half-giggles as they get up together, and head towards the bedroom. Patrick sinks down into his nest of pillows, and Pete sprawls out next to him, cuddles up to the soft warmth of his deer boy’s body. Just when he thinks it couldn’t get any better, Patrick’s hand slips under his shirt, and starts scratching his belly. That damn stag just has a way to figure out his weakness; Pete sighs in contentment as the tap tap tap of his wagging tail hitting the mattress fills the comfortable silence between them.

 

“You like that?” Patrick mumbles, a redundant question given the way Pete can’t hide his excitement, but Pete still nods. “You’re so silly,” Patrick continues, he already sounds sleepy, but nevertheless fond despite the supposed scolding. “But you’re such a good boy.” Patrick giggles when the tap tap tap of Pete’s tail increases as he makes a satisfied noise and gives his deer boy a sloppy, wet kiss. “A good boy. Mhm – good boy! Good – ew, Pete, you’re drooling all over my face!”

 

They both laugh as Patrick wipes away some spit from his freckled face, then yawns. “Good boy,” he repeats once more, as if to test out the new pet name just one more time. Patrick seems to grow more comfortable with the idea, and Pete hopes that’ll last. He gets a goodnight kiss from his deer boy, who falls asleep in Pete’s embrace and a faint tapping of Pete’s tail under the blankets.

  
  


The next morning, Patrick isn’t even angry that Pete can’t offer him a good breakfast; he declines the invitation to go out for something fancy and French, mumbles something about an early lunch he owes to Vicky and how Pete shouldn’t forget to drop by the studio with his band for some last-minute tinkering of the single and the work on I’m A Lawyer.

“You don't happen to know any girls who wanna collab with us?” Pete asks as he watches Patrick getting dressed after a breakfast consisting of Lucky Charms and milk-sugary kisses, “y’know, Gabe still needs a female vocalist for Good Girls Gone Bad...”

 

Patrick promises that he already has some ideas as he buttons up his shirt, then throws the blood-red SOB hoodie over to Pete, who decides to stay shirtless though. “Thanks for lending me this,” he mumbles as he fumbles with the collar of his shirt, “I’ll bring something to wear next time I’m over. It that’s okay...”  


“Sure thing,” Pete says with the biggest grin, ears perked up at the thought of his deer boy marking his territory in every way possible. “I could get you your own hoodie if you wanted. I’d offer you some t-shirts, but...” He points towards Patrick’s full-sized antlers.

 

For a moment, Patrick seems like he wants to object, which is what Pete expected anyway. Instead, his mismatched lips curve into a small smile, and he nods. “You know what? Fine. Just… Nothing neon-colored, okay?”

 

Pete squeals with joy, jumps out of the bed to hug his deer boy in victory.

Pete doesn't want to let his deer boy go, they’ve had such a great time and their bubble is about to be burst by that pesky real life bullshit like work and tours and everything else Pete doesn’t want to think about. But, he has no choice but to finally let Patrick shove him off, snatch one last goodbye kiss, and stand in the doorway ignoring the cold wind against his naked upper body as he watches Patrick drive off, waving after him until Patrick’s car is out of sight.

One last sigh, then Pete decides that Patrick won’t come back spontaneously no matter how long he stands in the cold air with a drooped tail and ears. He gets back inside, gets dressed, and calls for Hemmy, who’s all excited about finally going on a walk.

  
  


Pete is out with his dog when the first photos hit the gossip sites of the internet, showing one excited half-naked puppy guy waving goodbye to a cryptic little dude with giant antlers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their first time! I hope the smut made it worth the wait, haha.  
> Everything is so sweet and cute, what could go wrong? Aside from those photos........
> 
> Please let me know what you think in the comments!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dearest readers! Holidays are over and the new year isn't as new anymore, so it's time for some more deertrick again!  
> Thanks to Snitches for being the most awesome beta reader, and thanks to laudanum for always listening to me ranting about this fic as well.
> 
> As always, all artwork done by me.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick’s day is going fantastic.

 

He’s spent the night at Pete’s, he kissed his boyfriend goodbye before work, and now, Travie has scheduled studio time for his newest single which Patrick is very excited for. The ram has remained tight-lipped about the track, has only asked Patrick if he’d like to do the backup vocals and why would Patrick refuse? He’s humming the melody to I’m Like A Lawyer as he makes his way to his office, a bag of chocolate-filled croissants in his hand for Vicky and him to share for breakfast. Patrick hopes the sweets will provide enough of a bribe to not have to overshare last night’s events with the giggling, gossip-hungry Vicky.

These thoughts go out the window when he enters his office to find Vicky sitting on his desk, tail swinging nervously while he eyes him with concern. Patrick furrows his brows, has no time to ask what’s wrong because Vicky is already sprinting over to him, hugs him and mumbles: “Oh Patrick, I’m sorry…”

“Excuse me?” Patrick asks irritated while pushing her off, and putting the croissants on his desk. Hopefully, Vicky’s hug hasn’t squished them.

Vicky stares at him. Patrick stares back. Five minutes ago, his biggest worry was how he could prevent Vicky from poking and prodding about his now finally existent sex life. Somehow, he feels like that’s obsolete now.

 

And five minutes later, Patrick knows why. He’s sitting on his chair, staring at his computer screen that’s displaying three photographs. They’re somewhat blurry, but clearly show a half-naked Pete waving at a tiny, antlered guy.

“That was just this morning!” With anger and irritation, Patrick scrolls through the article, only to find two more photos. This time, it’s from the studio where they shot the music video, shot right when Pete and he are kissing.

“I’m sorry,” Vicky says again as she pats his shoulders, “I really don’t know who took the last one! We had all these extras, the camera team, prop designer, the catering team, just dozens of people...”

Patrick stays quiet. He knew something like this had to happen at some point, hell, Pete has even warned him about it, but… Patrick just didn’t expect it so soon. He’d hoped to close his eyes a little longer and pretend everything is fine and normal. Instead, he sees his eyes wide open in the unflattering flash light of some asshole on set taking a picture he wasn’t even aware of, sees himself in all the glory of wrinkly day-old clothes and mussed hair as he waves his impeccable looking, half-naked boyfriend goodbye. There’s no more safe spaces, no more paper and law bullshit to hide behind, his pictures are out there and those won’t be the last ones.

“I knew this would happen,” Patrick whispers eventually, “just… Couldn’t they wait?!” He narrows his eyes as he scrolls back up, intending to read the actual article. He’s stopped by Vicky’s hand covering his view. “You’re not looking at these,” Vicky says in a firm voice as she grabs the mouse from him, closes the browser tabs.

“Hey, wait! These articles are about me, I have to read them!” Patrick tries to get access to his computer again, but Vicky has already turned off the screen, and pushed his chair away. Vicky isn’t one to get physical, and she usually doesn't make a point of being way taller than Patrick, but right now, she’s standing right in front of him in all her glory and jealousy-inducing full height, hands on her hips, her feline eyes glowing with determination.

 

“You’re not reading this trash,” Vicky starts, and she sounds really serious. “This isn’t an album review or Rolling Stone. These articles aren’t about you. They’re about whatever bullshit persona the media assigned to the pictures of the unknown boyfriend of a known rock star. They don’t even know it’s you, Patrick Stump, talented producer and a lovely, if stubborn, stag. So, no. You’re not reading those.”

Patrick huffs, crosses his arms, leans back into his chair. His head hurts. His heart is aching from hurt pride. There’s a nagging sense of masochistic curiosity, there’s a part of him that wants to scream at Vicky to leave him alone so he can indulge in some digital self harm until his self-hatred is nourished properly.

“Please?” Vicky adds, losing some of her threatening aura as she leans against the desk, hands fiddling with her cardigan. “I’m not asking for me. I’m asking you to do this for yourself, and your own well-being.”

What Vicky is saying makes an awful lot of sense. Patrick can’t deny that there’s still this malicious curiosity nagging him, but as hard as it may be, it might pay off to fight against it.

Therefore, he says softly, “Fine, I won’t read them.”

Visibly relieved, Vicky relaxes, reaches out to tousle Patrick’s hair. “Now that’s a sensible decision. I’m sorry I showed it to you, but I did it so we could have an adult conversation right at the beginning instead of you being all… Grumpy and uncooperative.”

Patrick huffs again as he brushes a hand over his hair to smooth it. “I’m working on that,” he grumbles, which maybe doesn't disprove the point about him being grumpy, yet still seems to satisfy Vicky. She laughs, reaches out once more to bop his nose – seriously, when did this become a habit!? - then reaches for the bag with croissants. She hands one to Patrick, then clears her throat.

“Now, would you like to tell me _your_ version of yesterday’s events…?”

 

 

An hour and several instances of deep blushing later, Patrick finally finds himself in the studio with Travie, who thankfully skips the explicit questions about his love life. Instead, they bump fists – easier than a hug – and Travie grins at him with a knowing smile. “Congrats on the new boyfriend,” he simply says, chuckling when Patrick mumbles a “thanks”.

 

Said boyfriend has already left a string of messages on Patrick’s phone, which he has swiftly ignored so far. He’s already been showered in worries from Vicky, he can’t take an overly concerned puppy either.

 

But, Travie is a professional, and so is Patrick, and he can’t wait to finally think about nothing but music. Right?

Travie hands him the lyrics, head cocked to the side as he announces: “Let me know what you think, okay?”

Patrick scratches his antlers – damn, when will they shed? - as he eyes the words scribbled all over the crumbled paper. Why is Travie so worried?

 

“Clothes Off,” Patrick reads out, “uh, well. That’s not how I remember the lyrics from Jermaine Stewart’s song.”

 

“Well, here’s the thing – it’s a cover, but as a fun party song, okay? And so, the chorus is about partying. And taking your clothes off. Gotta have a little twist in my sampling, eh?”

 

Patrick’s face drops, and his frown intensifies even more as he reads over the lyrics that Travie hands him.

 

“Uh, I don’t know if that’s really my style,” Patrick tries to argue. Travie just chuckles, pats his back.

“C’mon, Stumpy. It’s a fun, sexy song. Your voice would be perfect. It’s goosebumps and raw seduction and you know it. Since when are you PG?”

“I’m not,” Patrick defends himself, glaring at Travie. “I’m just...”

Travie raises an eyebrow, waiting for Patrick to finish the sentence. Patrick wishes he had as much chill and patience as the ram. He kinda just wants to throw it aside and not sing but then again, he likes Travie and he likes singing.

“Sorry. Things are… A bit weird right now.” With a sigh, Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose. “First I get a famous boyfriend, then I get my pictures leaked all over the internet, and now you want me to go for… I don’t know, sex appeal? In a song about taking my clothes off? Am I not exposed enough already?”

“Dude, you’re leaping ahead way too far. No one is asking you to actually take off any of your clothes.” Travie sits down on the chair, leans forward and smiles at Patrick. “And still, no one would know it’s your voice, and no one knows that it’s you, Patrick Stump, who’s also dating Pete Wentz. You haven’t lost all privacy. You know I’ll respect your boundaries.” Travie clears his throat. “Although, if you change your mind and take credit for your vocals, I’ll be the first one to applaud you. And if you ever want to go on stage with me...”

“Let’s not go too far,” Patrick interrupts him nervously. “Fine, I’ll do the song. You didn’t really need to convince me, you know I love your music, it was just… Everything else.”

“You’re a complicated little dude sometimes,” Travie says with a laugh, “but I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Patrick considers objecting, but Travie draws him into a heartfelt hug – somehow maneuvering their horns and antlers to not collide with each other – and really, that doesn't feel too bad. Even if it’s not Patrick’s fault that everyone else is just too tall.

 

The music is enough to distract Patrick for the day, enough to let him feel lighthearted and like just any other day, where he is merely a good producer that doesn’t like publicity. Where he gets to decide who and what he is, not someone else. Pete keeps sending texts, and Patrick keeps not answering them; with a guilty conscience, sure, but he’s just not ready to talk things through with Pete yet. Especially not over texting.

 

Patrick has stumbled through the day without losing his calm (or his damn antlers), when Vicky corners him in his office again. “You sure you don’t need me?” She asks concerned, tail swinging as she eyes Patrick nervously.

“I’m fine,” Patrick answers with a little more anger than necessary, “can you stop treating me like I’m made of glass? I can handle this, okay? It’s just some stupid photos, right? I’m fine.”

Vicky doesn't look convinced, but she knows when to give him space, knows when she’s lost a battle. Still, Patrick feels bad once she shuts the door behind her; both because he lashed out at her again, and because he’s tired of being treated like a bomb that might go off any second. He’s fine. He knew what he got himself into. No one knows those terrible photos depict Patrick Stump, star producer and slighty-scared stag whose hands are totally not shaking when he fumbles his phone out of his jeans jacket.

After five dreadful rings, Pete picks up. “Deer boy, how are you?” Patrick is greeted, and he finds himself actually happy about hearing the silly nickname. It’s so Pete, and it makes his heart skip a beat. “You didn’t answer any of my texts,” Pete continues, and Patrick can practically see the pout, “was I overdoing it? Are you okay?”

Patrick presses the phone closer to his ears, and blurts out: “Pete, can I… Can I come over?”

 

 

40 minutes later, Patrick finds himself in the foyer of the hotel the band has been booked in for the night. They’re scheduled for interviews, photo shoots, and more interviews, not to mention that tour is starting soon. Pete is waiting for him, tail wagging and arms open for a big hug. After a quick paranoid look around to see if anyone is pointing anything camera-like at them, Patrick embraces his eager puppy, even allows himself to peck a kiss to Pete’s grinning lips.

“All alone today?” Patrick mumbles while they head for the elevators, hand in hand; nobody seems to be taking notice of them. “Where’s Hemmy?”

“With my parents.” Pete presses the floor button, leans against the wall. “He, uhm. He needs to get used to them again. I can’t take him with me for the international parts of the tour.” Patrick nods; there’s thoughtful silence between them, lingering until they’ve made it into Pete’s hotel room. It’s modest, but definitely nicer than the cheap motels or corporate housing Pete has stayed in. “A step up, right?” Pete says as if he had read Patrick’s thoughts, “we’re playing in the big boy leagues now. Next album, they’ll book us into the Ritz.”

Pete sits down on the bed, looks at Patrick with his big brown puppy eyes with way too much concern. “So, uhm. You sounded upset. I assume you saw the pictures? Are you alright?”

“Can everyone please stop asking me that?!” Patrick’s voice is perhaps a tad louder than necessary, as guilt and self-hatred flood him.

 

Any other boyfriend, Patrick is certain, would’ve simply kissed Pete, tumbled onto the bed with him, have some sweet sex and sweet pillow talk without any doubts or worries or stupid conversations about stupid, stupid pictures. But, here Patrick is, hands balled into fists as he tries to keep his composure. “It was just some dumb pictures,” Patrick hears himself say in a far less convincing manner than he’d hoped, “I can handle it, okay? I don’t need concern. I’m not weak, okay?”

Pete cocks his head, tail and ears pressed close to his body like always when he’s sad and distressed. It somehow makes Patrick even angrier because he’s the reason Pete is spending this evening arguing with Patrick instead of enjoying himself, no, Patrick is the sole reason for the misery. Patrick wants to scream, both at the puppy and at himself, he can feel it bubble up in his throat, the old bad habits and his bad temper.

Instead, Patrick starts to cry. “I’m making you all sad,” he brings out between two sobs, “I’m sorry, this isn’t what I wanted, you – you deserve better…!”

For a moment, Pete seems to be in shock and confusion, unsure of what to do, before he gets up, slings his arms around Patrick; it’s awkward because Patrick is keeping his head down to hide the tears, he’s rubbing his eyes and he can feel his antlers hitting Pete’s shoulder and yet, the puppy’s heartfelt attempt at comfort makes him calm down.

“I want you,” Pete mumbles into Patrick’s ear, “all of you, my deer boy, antlers and anger alike.”

Patrick lets out something between a sob and a chuckle. “’m not always angry,” he whispers, “and I don’t  always have antlers despite being, and you know that, a _stag_. In fact, I’m about to shed, and – hey!” He furrows his brows in confusion when Pete interrupts him mid-lecture with a kiss to the black tip of his nose.

“Mmm, you’re so cute when you’re like this,” Pete says with a big grin. “Forgive me for annoying you, I just wanted to distract you from your endless worries. C’mon, at least sit down with me on the bed. I’m so famous, I get a double bed now just for myself!”

Patrick rubs over his nose, then joins Pete on the bed. It has a pitiful amount of pillows, so Patrick leans against the headboard with a sigh.

 

Pete looks at him with those big puppy eyes of his again, nervousness now in them as he asks: “Do you wanna talk...?”

No, Patrick doesn't want to talk. He just wants his problems to go away without having to confront them. Then again, he has to admit that confrontation did land him the boyfriend that’s now so kind and caring, so maybe it’s a trick he can try twice.

“I don’t know,” Patrick starts rather helplessly and to his embarrassment, he finds the angry tears back in his ugly doe eyes.

 

It wasn’t just some pictures, it was the beginning of something new, something terrifying, it marks Patrick’s loss of privacy and control and no, he doesn't know how to deal with it yet. Talking about it had been so much easier than actually experiencing it.

 

“How do you deal with it?” Patrick sniffles, trying to wipe the tears off his freckled face. “You can’t even get fucking Starbucks without being afraid!”

Pete shrugs helplessly. “I’m… I don’t mind the attention as much as you do. I’m not afraid every time I step into Starbucks, no. Kind of got used to it by now. And we're not _that_ famous. Our agent told us not to engage, and to not get aggressive, we aren’t supposed to give them any more material.”

“I don't want to give them any material in the first place!” Patrick feels like a stubborn little kid. He folds his arms over his chest, presses his lips together to stop spewing nonsense and angry words at people who don’t deserve them. He’s trying to break that pattern.

At first, Pete looks irritated and ready to bark back; his tail thumps twice against the mattress, ears still drooped, brows furrowed.

“All I can do is try to control my own image, with what I put out. That’s why we do the Cobra Cam and everything – I want people to see my own version of myself, not just the tales that others spin about me. That’s why I love the silly photo shoots – I can do what I want, and it’s certainly better than the pap shots of me. I take control over my own image, not the other way around. And, uhm, as said. I just think I like the attention more than you do.” Pete chuckles, and no longer intimidated by the grumpy act Patrick is putting on, he rubs his nose against Patrick’s. “So maybe that’s not the way for you to do it, but… You could try the light version? Put out a pretty picture of you that you like. Or even better, come forward about yourself and your work. Just enough to satisfy the curiosity. That way, you can ensure it won’t get turned into anything ugly. Prevention is easier than dealing with a bad aftermath!”

“I’m happy where I am,” Patrick answers stubbornly. “I don’t – my music doesn't need my name. It’s good because it’s good, not because my name is on it.”

“It’s good because _you_ made it.” Pete nudges his nose against Patrick’s again, who can’t help but smile at the puppy’s attempt to cheer him up. He pecks a quick kiss to Pete’s lips, then his frown finally dissolves into a small smile. There might not be an easy solution to this dilemma, but knowing that Pete has his back is comforting.

“You’re a sweet talker,” Patrick says fondly, before hastily adding: “But, thank you. Maybe, I don’t know… One day...”

Pete grins, ears now perked up in excitement. “I think that would be fucking awesome, deer boy. Take your time. I know you’re stubborn, but I also know you can be convinced eventually.” He winks at Patrick, who rolls his eyes but laughs nonetheless.

 

They end up in a somewhat comfortable position, with Patrick hogging all the pillows and Pete resting his head on Patrick’s chest. “Can you sing me to sleep?” He asks, tail wagging in excitement. “Please? Pretty please?”

How could Patrick refuse? He sings what he has for I’m Like A Lawyer so far, until he’s half-asleep and slurring words, and he’s not sure if it’s Pete or he who falls asleep first.

  
  


They repeat this procedure the next day as well, except on the phone because this time Patrick is in his own bed and Pete is out of town, a taste of what’s to come when the band starts touring. Patrick sings to him, and even though it seems insomnia is stronger than his voice today, he still feels accomplished when Pete eventually hangs up. Left all alone in the dark, Patrick stares at the screen of his laptop, contemplating what to do. He’s promised Vicky not to read any of the gossip articles, but what harm is there to just look? A quick peek? A small sampling? Just a teeny-tiny bit?

Pete has been right, he’s not that famous, but still famous enough to give a few headlines about the mysterious guy seen meeting him in the lobby of his hotel, leaving the next day, all illustrated with a few poor snapshots of a blurry Patrick entering and exiting the hotel, again in the same clothes the next day. Patrick makes the cynical mental note to pack an overnight bag next time while he stares at the photos; at least some of of them have blurred his face (which makes his black-tipped nose look even weirder) but the antlers are still there, big and imposing and apparently making people speculate what kind of weird shit Pete Wentz is into these days. Patrick swallows.

One headline aggressively declares that Pete must be cheating on Gabe, caling him a “horndog” (a pun so horrendous, Patrick is sure that in any other context, Pete would actually love it) and other unpleasant names. Another states that “fans are outraged at the betrayal”, and “disappointed that the glamorous pop punk power-couple seems to have been broken up by this foxy fawn.”

 

Patrick shuts his laptop. He’s seen more than enough.

 

All alone in his too-big bed, Patrick feels lost, and he doesn’t sleep well, turning and tossing, shadows of bad dreams behind his closed eyelids.

 

The next morning, he wakes up covered in sweat, and with his antlers shed.

  


 

At the office, Vicky high-fives him upon seeing his antler-less head. “About time,” she says while smiling her Cheshire grin, “you look great. New antlers for a fresh start, right?” 

“It’ll take a while,” Patrick answers while he tugs at his hat, hiding the weird dent on his skull where his antlers used to be. “But, yeah. My back was killing me!”

Vicky laughs, then hands him this week’s schedule. “See you for lunch?” She asks, and Patrick nods.

“My treat.”

“Fresh start, remember that!” Vicky winks at him, still grinning. “Don’t drag your old baggage into your new antlers.”

“That doesn’t even make sense!” Patrick shouts after her, but the door falls shut behind Vicky without a further word from her. He sighs, then takes a look at who’s booked the studio time this week. When he sees that Fall Out Boy is coming back, a big grin appears on his pink and black lips.

 

The band is back two days later, sitting in the studio dressed in their usual attire – neon solidarity and bad puns everywhere – ready and eager to work. I’m Like A Lawyer is the last single scheduled and the only song on the album not yet done, and Patrick is dying to work on it. Gabe, all decked out in gold and purple, throws an arm around him with a big grin and wagging tail. “Finally get to work with you again, Patrick! It’s an honor as always. Let’s go and get Pete’s lovesick song done, eh?”

Patrick grins back, and nods.

The recording goes fantastically, and Patrick isn’t sure whether that’s because the band is more professional and experienced, or if it’s his own lovesickness as he sings his boyfriend’s beautifully crafted lyrics. The music is pumping through his veins, sends a shiver up his spine, and when they’re done and he looks at Pete’s blinding smile, Patrick feels the happiest he has in a long, long time.

 

Afterwards, the band is babbling away about their upcoming tour and other plans. Patrick’s lack of antlers has intrigued everyone for a moment (even Pete, who’s known, but not seen it yet), but thankfully, by now, they all know better than to poke and prod too much at the topic. Patrick sits in his chair, listens with slight impatience, then tells the band to go pack up.

“Not you, Pete,” he says when the puppy is about to follow his bandmates, “I, uh, we need to talk. About some Decaydance stuff.”

Pete blinks, then he seems to get it. “Oh, yeah. Right. The Decaydance stuff. Big business. Very important. Sorry, guys, it’ll only take a minute!” He’s as terrible a liar as Patrick is, and Gabe and Joe whistle after them as they leave the studio, but Patrick doesn’t care. He practically drags Pete over to his office, and locks the door behind them.

 

“Wow,” Pete says with a grin, “you’re fierce today -”

Patrick interrupts him with a passionate, hungry kiss. There are no more antlers to weigh him down, no more bones to make his shoulders ache, so he can finally kiss Pete without Pete having to lean in every time, without having to worry about accidentally hitting the eager puppy somehow. They can touch and hug without anything in the way; Patrick can kiss Pete, drag him closer by that ridiculous collar, he can bury his nose in the curve of Pete’s throat, lick over his collar bones, drag Pete over to his desk where Pete has about two seconds to steady himself before Patrick is on his knees, tugging at the ridiculously tight pants and the stupid Pawndestine belt.

“Off?” Patrick prompts with a growl; he won’t coerce anything, Pete can totally say no and they can just go back to the studio for the scheduled work.

Of course, that’s not on Pete’s mind either. In no time, he’s undone his belt and shoved down his pants, about to do the same with his underwear only to be stopped by Patrick.

“I want to,” Patrick mumbles, “Just – let me take care of you, okay?”

“Oh fuck, yes,” Pete whines in response, his puppy eyes fixed on Patrick who feels a little weird to be watched. He decides to make the best of it, give Pete something to look at; he drags down Pete’s pants (black with golden bartskulls printed on them, Patrick can’t believe he’s allowing them to touch his mouth, love must make him stupid) with his teeth, proud at the small moan it gets him.

 

Finally, Patrick doesn’t need to worry. No giant sharp bones, nothing that can hurt Pete, no sore shoulders or bad back pain restricting his movements. He can just lean in, give a small bite to Pete’s thigh, lick over his sharp hip bones, the stupid tattoo, the head of Pete’s dick, growing hard and heavy in his hand. Pete whines again, thrusts his hips a little in a demand for more. Oh, and Patrick is so going to give him exactly that. Another teasing lick, some rough but precise strokes with his hand, more whining from Pete which turns into desperate little whimpers when Patrick starts to take his dick into his mouth.

 

Patrick goes slow, relishing in every second of the experience previously made impossible by his full-sized antlers. Pete tastes of musk and salt, of heat and lust, filling up Patrick’s mouth in the most delicious way. Being able to give back some pleasure to his patient puppy is so satisfying in its own way. Not everyone has wanted to wait that long for a spontaneous blowjob, not everyone was alright with Patrick not going on his knees whenever they wanted him to.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” Pete blurts out; he’s panting, eyes still fixed on Patrick like it’s a sight so pretty, he wouldn’t want to miss a second of it. “I can’t hold back for much longer...”

Nodding a little to show he’s understood, Patrick still keeps going. He knows Pete is clean (because of course, Patrick’s slightly obsessive nature has made him demand all the paperwork needed as proof, which Pete happily provided) and dammit, Patrick wants the full experience, both for himself and his boyfriend. Patrick lets his tongue slide over the underside of Pete’s dick, feels the tip hitting the back of his throat, feels Pete shudder and hears him cry out in a hoarse voice. Yes, he wants everything, he wants to taste the salt-tang of Pete’s orgasm, he wants to feel the exact moment Pete gives in to total pleasure, he wants them to be one.

Patrick slides one of his hands up Pete’s thigh, rests it on his ass, relishing in the firmness under his fingers and the excited groan he gets when giving a little squeeze. Pete is still thrusting his hips a little, but one hand is holding onto the desk to steady himself, the other half-heartedly covering his mouth in a feeble attempt to be a little more discreet, and he mostly lets Patrick set the pace. Pete moans, he whines, he gasps, he’s loud and unfiltered as always and Patrick is loving it. He stares up at Pete, not even caring about how weird his doe eyes could be looking right now, focused solely on Pete. Patrick speeds up a little, two-colored lips sealed around Pete’s dick, tongue pressed against his throbbing length, ears perked up to catch every sweet little sound falling from Pete’s mouth.

Not long after, Pete comes with a loud cry barely muffled by his shaking hand. Patrick swallows the salt and bitter, laps his tongue over Pete’s length one last time, then withdraws his mouth. He wipes over his spit-wet lips, and pulls up Pete’s underwear and pants before getting up to draw the puppy into a big hug. Pete clings to him, tail wagging and ears perked up as Patrick continues to kiss him.

 

“That was fantastic,” Pete eventually brings out, “how can I… Want me to do the same?”

Patrick shakes his head, and to his surprise, Pete looks almost hurt. “But I wanna be a good boy,” the puppy protests with a pout, which makes Patrick chuckle.

“It’s fine,” Patrick explains with a smile, “I wanted to do something just for you today. That’s enough for me. You can repay me another time.”

Pete still stares at him with a pout, and Patrick sighs, then adds: “You’re still a good boy, okay?”

That gets Pete to smile again. “Good boy,” he repeats with a giggle, before he kisses Patrick again. “You weren’t bad yourself either. I’ve been hard practically since I heard you sing my song… So fucking sexy. When you finally decide to get up on the stage with us, I can’t promise I won’t start humping you right there and then for everyone to see.”

“ _If_ I ever do that,” Patrick corrects nervously, thinking back to Travie’s request. It’s not the first and probably not the last time he gets asked to join an act on stage, but somehow, the denial doesn’t roll off his tongue as easily as it used to.

 

Pete rubs his nose against the black tip of Patrick’s, and the mischief in his eyes makes Patrick wonder what changes in his life this puppy will continue to cause.

 

 

 

Not long after, the inevitable is about to happen – Fall Out Boy is going on tour, dragging the Panic kids with them, scheduled to play not only in the US, but the UK, Europe, and Japan as well.

Currently, Patrick is in his bed, Pete next to him, enjoying how they can cuddle without having to be afraid of the antlers getting in the way. It’s their last evening together. Patrick tries not to think about it.

“I have a very important question for you,” Pete says suddenly. He rolls over on his stomach, head propped up on his hands, puppy eyes fixed on Patrick. “Something I always wondered. Please don’t think I’m weird?”

Patrick laughs, with just a hint of nervousness. “Too late for that, puppy. But ask away.”

“Say, deer boy, what do you do with those shed antlers?” Pete stares at Patrick’s currently antler-less head. “Do you keep them in a box? Somewhere in your closet or under your bed? Do you hang them on the wall somewhere? Do you just throw them away? Do you -?”

“Neither of these things,” Patrick interrupts him, slightly irritated. “No, I… I can’t just throw them away. They’re my bones, body parts! That would feel wrong. But keeping them is kind of weird, too. I just…” Patrick sighs; Pete will think he is the weird one. “I bury them. In my garden. To give them back to Mother Nature. It feels like the right thing to do.”

“Antlers to antlers, dust to dust!” Pete laughs at his own joke like the dork he is. “Love it. And it makes total sense. It’s so… mythical and respectful. Like it’s from a fairytale!”

Relieved at Pete’s reaction, Patrick chuckles, half-heartedly tries to object the fairytale simile, when Pete suddenly sits up, tails and ears perked up in alert. “Oh! Oh! That reminds me! I got something for you, my deer boy!”

He stumbles out of bed, rummages through his clothes, before he jumps onto the mattress again, now clutching something in his hand. Irritated but curious, Patrick holds up his own hand, and Pete drops the small item into his outstretched palms.

 

It’s something small and silver and upon closer inspection, Patrick realizes it’s the paw charm that Pete wears on his tacky collar – complete with Pete’s personalized heart inside. That’s both incredibly silly and yet so honest and sweet.

“Just a little something,” Pete says nervously, ears pressed to his flat-ironed hair. Obviously, this isn’t just a little something to him. “Figured you wouldn’t want to wear it with the collar...”

Patrick chuckles, because Pete is right and wrong at the same time. While Patrick would indeed opt out of wearing a damn dog collar on his neck (somehow, he suspects he can’t quite pull it off like Pete anyway), he doesn't consider this merely a little trinket. The paw charm clearly means a lot to Pete, it’s his personalized design with all his heart put in it, metaphorically speaking. Patrick gently and protectively closes his fist around it, as if to measure the emotional weight behind it.

With his ears and tails still drooped, Pete eyes him nervously. “I know it’s not your taste,” he mumbles, a blush spreading across his honey-colored skin, “I just… You know.”

“I know,” Patrick says with a smile, as he tries to put in words what Pete can’t right now. As good as the puppy is with poetry, Patrick has come to learn that Pete isn’t the best when he doesn't have pen, paper, and weighty metaphors to hide behind. “You’re giving me your heart, and it’s the most precious thing I’ve ever gotten. I’ll cherish it, I promise!”

Pete’s ears pick up, and a big smile illuminates his face. He reaches for Patrick, and draws him into a deep, passionate kiss, all while his wagging tail keeps slapping against Patrick’s thigh.

“You’re all about grand gestures, aren’t you,” Patrick says afterwards, chuckles again as he wipes over his mouth.

“Exactly, my deer boy,” Pete answers, still smiling, and Patrick can’t help but kiss him again.

  


Later that evening, as they lay in bed together, happy and spent, freshly showered and all cuddled up thanks to Patrick’s newfound freedom in his range of movements, the inevitable comes up again. “I’ll leave for tour tomorrow,” Pete mumbles into the comfortable silence, ushering the words Patrick doesn't want to hear just yet. “I’ll miss you. Will you come visit?”

“I’ll miss you too,” Patrick assures him with a deep sigh, “and of course I’ll come visit when my schedule allows it.”

Pete clears his throat. “Well, if you do so… There will be a lot of people around. Photos will be taken. Are you okay with that?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick answers honestly. “But with you at my side, I feel like I’m ready to face it.”

“I will protect you,” Pete growls as he instinctively pulls Patrick closer. As much as Patrick knows it’ll be in vain, it still feels reassuring.

He sings Pete to sleep, before drifting into dreamless oblivion himself.

 

 

The next day, Patrick stands in the freezing cold of the Chicago winter in front of the tour buses. Everyone around them is stressed and busy, and Patrick has already said goodbye to the bands, endured a crushing hug from Gabe, refused a cookie from Joe that smelled suspiciously of weed, denied handing over his shed antlers to Brendon and Ryan (“c’mon, they would make such pretty stage costumes! We will spray-paint them gold – Patrick, come back!”), and he’s sure he has hugged and kissed Pete at least three dozen times, as if he were never to come back.

 

“I’ll write you,” Pete whispers, his breath a white cloud between them, “I’ll call you.”

“Please don’t expect me to answer a million texts, and I won’t always be up at 4AM,” Patrick answers nervously as he fiddles with his hat. After a few days of being without antlers, he can’t deny he’s already anticipating their growth. He feels naked and raw and like something important is missing, and it doesn't help to know that Pete will board that bus in ten minutes to drive off for days and days and potentially, weeks. Pete looks kind of sad, so Patrick adds: “But, I’ll write you, and I’ll talk to you whenever I have time, and I’ll sing you to sleep whenever you need it. Promise.”

That earns him a big kiss, and now seems to be the perfect moment for the parting gift. Patrick reaches into the deep pocket of his winter coat, his fingers wrapping around a cold, rough surface.

“For you,” Patrick mumbles nervously as he holds out his present to Pete, “I, uh… I thought you might like it...”

Pete stares at Patrick’s hand. “Is that – dude, is that part of your antlers?”

Despite the cold, Patrick feels his face burning. Maybe, this has been a terrible idea. He nods shyly, and each second Pete stays silent pierces his heart. “It is,” Patrick says weakly, “you can chew on it as much as you like. Since you seemed to enjoy that so much, and you said you missed my antlers, and I can’t be with you all the time, and you gave me that charm, and -”

Pete stops him with a gentle kiss, then takes the antler branch from Patrick’s shaky grip. It’s just the top branches, a little longer than the palm of Patrick’s hand, carefully cut and cleaned. “Holy fuck, deer boy, that’s – fuck, that’s so awesome.” Pete is grinning. Pete is happy. “You have no idea how much that means to me! Aw, I get to carry around a piece of you – and one of the best parts, even!”

“I don’t know about that,” Patrick whispers, only to be silenced by another sweet kiss.

 

Fifteen minutes later, the buses are all loaded up, and Patrick feels like a lovesick, foolish teenager but he still stays and waves at them until they’re out of sight. He takes a deep breath, takes his hat off to run a hand through his hair, painfully aware of the absence of his antlers.

 

Right here, right now, abandoned in the dirty snow, Patrick feels very empty.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? You thought I'd go easy on the boys? Oh, well... they've yet to face some more difficulties, I'm afraid. How will they manage their new relationship and everything that comes with it? Come back the next chapter to find out, and feel free to leave me a little comment, I'd be delighted!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you for your patience. Deertrick returns with Patrick paying a visit to Pete, a little fluff, a little smut, and some very important words are said...
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for being my patient beta reader once more!
> 
> Artwork done by me~

 

 

 

 

Three weeks.

 

Three weeks since Pete’s last seen his deer boy in the flesh, and he’s ready to run up the walls.

 

They talk, as much as they can: over Skype on their laptops, faces illuminated by the glow of the screen, and it’s only taken 8 days and extensive begging and persuasion (plus another promise that no, Pete won’t take screenshots and no, his laptop isn’t bugged) to get Patrick to turn on the webcam, too. On the phone, when Pete’s in a hurry or when it’s late at night and the Sidekick is more convenient than getting out his laptop. Said Sidekick is also used for an extensive amount of text messages, mostly from Pete’s side, but he doesn’t mind; he just likes to share every random thought with his surroundings, and since Patrick isn’t here to listen, well, he’ll have to read through a dozen texts.

It’s hard. Harder than Pete expected it to be. All the Skype calls in the world and all the little pieces of Patrick’s antlers can’t replace the real deal.

“It will be easy when you're not in your Honeymoon period anymore,” Joe tries to cheer him up when Pete complains, again, for the third time that day. “It’s all so fresh, of course you miss him a lot.”

“I will never _not_ miss my deer boy,” Pete says stubbornly, crosses his arms over his chest, right over his shirt’s neon print spelling _Don’t Leash Me_. Joe rolls his eyes, rakes a hand through his curls and over his bunny ears.

“Can you not?” Andy looks up from Crossfit magazine to scowl at Pete. “What would Patrick say if he knew you keep calling him that?”

Pete sits ups a little, and sticks his tongue out at Andy. He narrowly dodges the magazine that’s thrown at him, then answers: “Actually, I believe he grew to like the nickname. Unlike you, he can appreciate my genius way with words.” Andy’s narrowed feline eyes stare at Pete’s shirt, then he shakes his head and gets up to retrieve his reading matter.

Gabe comes back from his trip to the fridge, sits on the couch, hands Joe and Pete a beer as well. He allows Pete to lean on his shoulder, and laughs at Pete’s obvious pouting. “Missing your little stag again? You should invite him to come over, y’know. Catch one of our shows, and catch up with you...”

“Only at a hotel night,” Joe chimes in. “I know more than enough about everyone’s sex lives already. I really don’t need to hear or see him chew on actual Patrick’s… Antlers.”

 

Pete sighs. “He just shed his antlers, Joe. And -”

 

“Please, Pete, no more.” Joe waves his hands, spills some beer over himself. “You chewing on his antler remains weird enough as it is, and I do not want to know more about it, please.”

“Patrick’s tiny enough, he can share a bed bunk with Pete.” Gabe takes a sip of his beer, grins at Pete who can’t help but wag his tail at the mere thought already, ignoring Joe’s muttered “ew”.

“I’ve already invited him,” Pete confesses, “I’ll just need to wait until his work schedule clears up.”

“Hotel night,” Joe reiterates, “or, you get company of Patrick when I get the company of Mary Jane. That’s a fair deal.”

“That’s not a fair deal.” Andy, out of magazines to throw at people, glares at Joe. “Whatever. Please just tell us in advance when he’s coming.”

Gabe empties his beer, slings an arm around Pete and grins at Andy. “Hurley, you better appreciate I’m not making a joke about Patrick coming.”

 

The band keeps bickering while Pete stays silent. Hemmy, irritated by all the noise around him, interrupts his nap to get up, jump on the sofa, and continues his nap in Pete’s arms. Pete sends another text to his deer boy, then he curls up against Gabe, tail tucked against his thighs just like the real puppy sleeping in his embrace, and soon he’s drifting somewhere between sleep and wakefulness on the seemingly endless road.

 

Three days later, Patrick has promised that his work schedule has cleared enough and that he’s ready to meet them on the road.

 

Pete is pacing back and forth at the venue, barely concentrating on the task in hand. Usually, he’d be excited for the pyro show they’re planning, he’d be nervous about the impressive size of the venue and the sold-out crowd already, but right now, all he can think about is Patrick’s arrival. The stag has refused to be picked up at the airport by him (“Pete, you have enough to do, you’re on tour, you’re working”) and insisted on dropping off his luggage at their hotel first, so now all Pete can do is keep pacing while staring at his phone. He’s so focused on staring at the screen of his Sidekick and trying to resist looking up the safety of Patrick’s airline for the fifth time, he almost misses when a well-known voice shouts over the chaos around him.

 

“Pete!”

 

Pete stops dead in his tracks, ears raised as he turns his head towards the person who called his name. It’s none other than his beloved and long-awaited deer boy, looking a bit tired and disheveled but all around healthy and well. He’s all decked out in his usual jeans jacket, the lack of antlers allowing him to wear a t-shirt, and there’s a fedora perched on top of his slightly too-long hair, endearingly mismatched to his otherwise casual clothes. Patrick also looks a little awkward, like he doesn't know what to do in this situation; he waves at Pete, with an endearing shyness.

Pete has none of that, he just runs over to Patrick, hugs him with such force they both stumble backwards. It earns him a laugh from Patrick, warm and tender, just like the welcome kiss he gives Pete.

“Missed you,” Pete whispers when their lips part, “missed you so much!”

“Missed you too,” Patrick whispers back in a fond voice as he pets over Pete’s head, scratching his ears until Pete, despite his puppy traits, almost purrs. “How are you? How’s life on the road? We need to catch up after the show...”

Pete laughs, kisses his deer boy again, then slings an arm around his waist. “We sure do,” he says in a low voice and with a dirty grin, “but first, you gotta see us play again! And the Panic kids are doing so well on stage, it’s really awesome. Our new songs are a hit with the crowd, you wouldn’t fucking believe it, the kids love them. And - “

Pete babbles on and on as he leads Patrick backstage, tail wagging, bursting with excitement.

  


After an extensive round of greeting everyone (which, Pete won’t lie, is mostly him proudly showing off his much-missed boyfriend) and just before Pete needs to go and join the rest of the band for the soundcheck, he and Patrick end up in the wardrobe, a few more precious minutes together.

Pete has imagined this a lot during lonely nights, and most of his fantasies included one of them bent over the table or pressed against the wall or laying on a pile of clothes on the floor. In reality, Patrick is tired from traveling and seemingly not very turned on at the thought of illicit, semi-public sex. Pete is too much in love to be really disappointed, just makes a dirty joke about the cream-filled eclairs Patrick brought them for snacking (which earns him a dirty look and a snobby lecture about foreign food and how to pronounce pretentious French words).

“I’ve talked so much about me,” Pete says through a mouth full of food. “What’s new with you?”

“Actually...” Patrick smiles, then takes off his fedora to reveal two tiny stumps underneath it. “My antlers are growing back!”

Pete smiles back, reaches out to pet Patrick’s head. His hand is batted away, and Patrick has his fedora back on before Pete can start a second attempt. Pete rolls his eyes, still says: “Congrats, deer boy. They look adorable. So tiny!”

“We are not in a petting zoo,” Patrick grumbles as he adjusts his hat. “And they might be tiny now, but… I’m hoping to grow them real big again this time.”

“You sure will!” Pete leans forward, bops Patrick’s nose before Patrick can bat his hand away again. Patrick scowls at Pete while he rubs over the black tip of his freckled nose. Pete laughs to himself, then reaches for the next pretentiously named French pastry, handing one to Patrick.

“There’s something else...” Patrick trails off, looking at Pete with big eyes and a small smile as he points towards his chest. Pete takes a double-look at the well-known jeans jacket, adorned with a few Bowie pins, but in between them, he sees something both new and familiar. Pete reaches out a hand, fingertips trailing over the paw-shaped pendant attached to the jacket with a small silver safety pin.

“You know I’m not a big jewelry guy, so I thought this would be a cute alternative.” Patrick’s smile widens a little. “This way, I can always wear it, and it’s close to my heart, you know? Do you… Do you like it?”

“Are you kidding me? You put me right over your heart, and next to fucking David Bowie! I love it, deer boy!” Pete fists his hand into the jacket, pulls Patrick closer for an excited kiss. “You’re the best, you know that?”

Patrick laughs, leans his head against Pete’s shoulder. Pete likes that he can do that now, that they can be close like that without big antlers getting in the way. “I’m working on it, puppy.”

  
  


Before the show, Pete is buzzing with the usual nervous energy, bouncing around and annoying everyone, including Patrick who, once again, insisted on watching from backstage. It’s somewhat disappointing, but with all the recent rumors going on, Pete doesn’t have the heart to argue with his deer boy to take another step into the intimidating spotlight. Patrick took the first steps by flying out to see him and wearing Pete’s paw charm out in the open for everyone to see, and Pete thinks it might be best to let Patrick set the pace for getting comfortable with the public.

Just as the Panic kids are done with their set and Fall Out Boy is about to head out, Patrick holds Pete back, with some insecurity in his eyes. “You won’t kiss him again, will you?”

It takes Pete a second to realize what Patrick is talking about – that unfortunate incident the last time he was invited to a Fall Out Boy concert, where he had to watch Pete’s jealousy manifest in making out with Gabe on stage. “Of course not,” Pete hurries to say, “I won’t kiss him like that again. Even if I did, it – it wouldn’t mean anything.”

“It means something to me,” Patrick says quietly. “Please, don’t kiss Gabe on the mouth anymore. I get it, you have a gimmick and the fans love it, and it’s nothing romantic, and you can express your affection towards him in any way you want, just – just not like that, please.”

“Can I at least talk about us? About you and me?” Pete shifts nervously on his feet, ears up in alertness. “I mean, I won’t mention your name or anything, but I’m really tired of making up excuses for bullshit gossip. We’re together, and I respect your need for privacy, but I don’t want to keep us a secret forever.”

“I wouldn’t say we’re a secret,” Patrick argues weakly, sighs when he sees how Pete cocks his head and pulls the biggest puppy eyes he can muster. “Okay, fine. Go ahead. Just… Don’t give them any more reason to talk, okay?”

Patrick kisses him, and Pete likes how now, without the antlers, Patrick always gets up on his tiptoes to do so rather than Pete having to lean in. “Have fun,” Patrick says softly, “I know you guys will do a great show.”

“You done with the romance crap?” Gabe is standing in the doorway, already decked out in a brightly colored sweater and a black shirt with bold, white letters spelling “ _dogs who bark bite even harder_ ”. Pete knows Gabe’s particularly fond of this design. Joe appears behind him, eyes demonstratively covered with his hands, “yeah, you coming, Pete?”

“Funny, that’s just what Patrick asked me a minute ago,” Pete growls at him, which causes Joe to lower his hand and make a face at him.

“I did not,” Patrick says indignantly, arms crossed and head lowered, his angry doe eyes barely peeking out under the brim of his black fedora. “Go, Gabe, drag this puppy with you on stage.”

“Yes, sir,” Gabe says with a big grin as he slings an arm around Pete. To Pete’s relief, the gesture doesn’t seem to cause anger or jealousy in his little stag. “But, just so you know, Patrick. You should be out there with us one day as well. Sing our collabs live on stage. It would be fun.”

“Go,” Patrick repeats, probably with more insecurity than he wanted to. Pete knows it’s a battle they’ll have to fight another day.

  


Bright stage lights and attention all on them, Pete feels strangely at home on stage. “What’s up, everyone!” He yells into his mic, “we hope you’re having fun tonight!”

 

The crowd response with loud cheering. Pete is only the slightest bit nervous as he continues: “Now, you all know Gabe’s my best friend in the whole world. The ying to my yang. The neon to my darkness. The biggest son of a bitch with the biggest, softest heart ever!” More cheering as Gabe bows down, winks at Pete. “But… There’s another man in my life, and while he could never ever replace Gabey-Baby, I’m very much in love. The next song is for him!”

There’s cheering and shouting, but their instruments and Gabe and Joe’s improvised live version of I’m Like A Lawyer tunes out most of the crowd’s reaction. Pete plays with more enthusiasm than ever, and when he turns around at the end of the song, he catches a glimpse of mismatched clothes and Patrick’s tiny antlers.

They power through the rest of their set, Pete high from happiness and the usual crowd-surfing, and for the first time ever since people stopped throwing bottles at them, he’s actually eager to leave the stage. Because today, he knows Patrick’s waiting for him already.

All the post-show excitement and celebrations behind them, they’re finally in their hotel room – it’s not the Ritz Carlton, but still, Pete is pretty proud of how his band is doing. Before he can point out how Fall Out Boy is staying in real hotels now with big beds and small fancy soaps and room service, he has Patrick’s lips on his, frantic, hungry, in search of more.

 

“You were amazing today,” Patrick groans for the third time now, but hey, Pete’s not complaining about that, “such a good show, I can almost forgive how you still haven’t improved much on your bass-playing.”

“You’re such a snob,” Pete grunts back while he fumbles with Patrick’s pants, “and you still haven’t improved on giving compliments.”

Pants off, they’re both busy taking off the rest of their clothes now. “Maybe I am,” Patrick says, voice muffled as he takes off his shirt, “I try, I really do, but I might just stay a grumpy stag forever.”

Pete laughs sweetly, takes Patrick’s hand, guides him to bed. “Fine with me,” Pete lands on the mattress, Patrick climbing onto his lap, gloriously naked, a delicious landscape of freckled ivory skin. “I like my little deer boy just the way he is.”

“Ha, I know you’re – ah, you’re just saying this to annoy me,” Patrick pants while Pete’s hands roam over his body.

With a laugh, Pete pecks a kiss to Patrick’s freckled cheeks. “And yet it works every time.”

Patrick scoffs, but by now, Pete isn’t intimidated by that anymore. “More importantly… My antlers are still small,” Patrick says as he points to his head, “we need to make the best use of it. There are certain things, and certain… Certain positions I just can’t do with full-grown antlers.”

“As long as you can do me...” Pete grins at his own joke. “How about we switch this time? You could fuck me? We can do it - “

 

“Pete, please, don't -”

 

“Doggy style,” Pete finishes the sentence, and he almost chokes on his own laughter. Patrick narrows his eyes, unfazed by Pete’s joke.

“Glad to see this idea is such a joke to you,” Patrick mumbles with anger and anxiety in his voice.

“Oh come on. You and me, that’s not a joke to me. And I wasn’t laughing at you!”

Patrick takes a deep breath, climbs off Pete’s lap. For a moment, Pete is scared that Patrick is done with this, but Patrick sits down between Pete’s spread legs and it doesn't look like he wants to leave anytime soon. “Okay then,” Patrick says softly, “but please, Pete, don’t ever ruin the mood with this terrible pun ever again.”

“Seriously, you’re awful at compliments.” Pete rolls his eyes, only somewhat offended, but still very turned on by the sight of his naked deer boy, especially now that Patrick’s touching him, running a hand down over his chest, his belly, to his hard-on.

“Okay, enough,” Patrick shushes him as he reaches for the lube, “be a good boy, and let me take care of you...”

 

A few minutes, some lube, and a lot of kisses later, Patrick has worked two fingers into Pete. Patrick’s careful, holding back, Pete can feel that, but damn, he’s still amazing at this. “Mmm, I should let you do this more often,” Pete says with a wink, followed by a loud moan when Patrick rubs over his prostate again.

 

“We can stop,” Patrick offers with such sweet sincerity. “I don’t need to… All I want is for you to feel good.”

“No,” Pete gasps, “maybe… Maybe another time, but today… I want all of you. I’ve been waiting for so long…”

Patrick chuckles, leans forward to plant another kiss on Pete’s trembling lips. “Always so dramatic,” he whispers with a smile, “I’ve learned to enjoy that side of yours. Can you take a third finger?”

Pete very much can; it might’ve been a while, but Pete enjoys the familiar burn, and he enjoys knowing how much he can trust Patrick. “’m ready, deer boy,” he pants soon after, “let’s do this.”

“You sure? You’re the one who needs to jump around on stage tomorrow.”

“I’m good,” Pete insists stubbornly, “and I’ll be even better once you get your dick inside of me.”

With a little laugh, Patrick kisses him again, then carefully withdraws his fingers. Pete winces at the strange feeling of emptiness, while Patrick rolls a condom over his erection, then spreads more lube over his dick.

“Seriously,” Pete says with a pout as Patrick leans over him again, “I can take it.”

It speaks for Patrick’s self control that he stops, holds up a finger, and blurts out: “But… But I want this to be perfect. I want – need to make sure you’re comfortable, and I don’t – don’t share your enthusiasm for being rough right now.”

“Aw, you’re the sweetest.”

Patrick smiles weakly. “Not the lamest?”

“No,” Pete assures him, then pokes his chest, “but please, get inside of me. Now.”

Patrick follows Pete’s request, slowly pushes in, huge eyes fixed on Pete. Pete gasps, fingers digging into Patrick’s hips; Patrick is huge, and he so deserves the _Hung Like A Stag_ shirt Pete may or may not have been secretly toying around with in his head.

 

Patrick leans in closer, and Pete can’t deny it’s so nice that Patrick can do that now without his antlers hitting anything and without worries that he will have terribly sore shoulders afterwards. It feels so good to feel the weight of his deer boy on him, grounding him into reality, remind him that Patrick is really doing this, that he is here for Pete. Strong and confident, not the startled little stag lowering his antlers all the time. Pete likes to think they’ve come a long way.

“You good?” Patrick asks him now, and when Pete nods, he starts to move. They work out a slow, sensual rhythm, bodies grinding against each other, lips exchanging fervent kisses. Being held and taken care of is always something Pete likes but damn, he never dreamed it could feel as heavenly as this. “More,” Pete mumbles, he’s not really sure what more is, just knows he wants it.

“Wanna change positions?” Patrick asks breathlessly, and he laughs when Pete nods excitedly. The moment Patrick has pulled out, Pete throws himself on all fours, wiggles his hips. There may or may not be some bad dirty talk and puns on the tip of his tongue, but Patrick is so into this, Pete really doesn't want to ruin the moment.

When Patrick slides back into him, Pete can’t help but moan loudly; and then, Patrick leans in closer, lips trailing over Pete’s neck, right hand finding Pete’s hard and aching dick. Whatever witty things Pete had in mind are replaced with nothing but whimpers and sheer want as he tries to fall back into their rhythm, ass against Patrick’s groin, Patrick’s skilled hands stroking him in a matching pace.

Pete comes first, hard and intense, with Patrick following shortly after; Pete can hear him moan, then he feels how Patrick trails light kisses over his back as he pulls out. “You good?” Patrick asks breathlessly, and Pete barely has enough energy to nod. Patrick gets up, and Pete almost whimpers at the loss of his warmth, but his deer boy returns just a moment later with a warm washcloth to clean them up.

 

Because they’re in the big leagues now, Pete orders them room service. By the time Patrick comes back from the bathroom (sadly, dressed in a shirt and underwear again), Pete is already waiting on the bed, together with a big bowl of fruit and everything sweet he could order.

“You’re spoiling me,” Patrick sighs with no actual accusation behind his words as he sits down next to Pete, reaches for one of the strawberries.

“Just the best for my sweetest deer boy,” Pete says with a grin, grabbing another strawberry and holding it out to Patrick. “Say aaah!”

Patrick glares at him, takes the strawberry from his hand. “Again, we’re not in a petting zoo.”

It’s kind of sad, because Pete has had this fantasy of Patrick being all sweet and cuddly, head in Pete’s lap, getting fed hand-picked berries from Pete’s all too eager hands… Pete’s tail starts wagging at the mere thought. Well, perhaps another time.

For now, he watches Patrick eat with great appetite. “Don’t judge me. I need to regrow several pounds of bones,” Patrick says defensively when he notices Pete looking at him.

“I’m not judging.” Pete smiles reassuringly, not mentioning his rather dirty thoughts when he sees Patrick’s pink tongue licking over his lips, the way his Adam’s apple moves when he swallows… “I just like to look at you. And while we’re at it, I also liked you fucking me. We should switch more often.”

 

“I’m glad you’re into it,” Patrick mumbles softly, “I’ve met enough guys who weren't.”

Pete cocks his head. “Why wouldn’t they?”

Patrick shrugs. “Well, they look at me and they see this tiny guy, the adorable little deer, a fawn, and they think – I guess they think I should stay within those narrow bounds, you know?”

“They’re idiots then,” Pete says softly as he reaches out to gently pet Patrick’s fine hair and velvet-covered antler stumps. Patrick lets him, a sign of trust that makes Pete’s tail wag again.

“People want me to be cute, and some of my partners even wanted me to be thankful to them for sleeping with me at all. But – but just because I look the way I look doesn’t mean all I deserve is a pity fuck.” Patrick scoffs, crosses his arms over his chest. “Just because I look the way I look doesn't mean I should behave a certain way, or be pitied, or gawked at, or – or have to cut off parts of my body just to be deemed socially acceptable again.”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me. I like you just the way you are.” Pete leans forward, pecks a kiss to Patrick’s frowning lips. “Although I am glad you’re talking now, instead of just lowering your antlers at me.”

Reflexively, Patrick touches the velvety stumps on his head. Pete grins, and then he leans forward for another kiss, and then one more, until they end up with Patrick on top of Pete again, two-colored lips pressed against Pete’s.

 

“I can sleep like a normal person again,” Patrick whispers between two kisses, “do you want to be my big spoon?”

 

How can Pete say no to that? As much as he likes Patrick’s antlers, this newfound freedom has its perks, too. He can embrace Patrick, hug him tightly as he buries his nose into the stag’s strawberry-blond hair, and he reaches for Patrick’s hand to lace their fingers together. Pete hears him chuckle lightly, then Patrick turns his head (still, with great care) to kiss Pete goodnight.

 

Right here, right now, with Patrick in his arms, his hand holding Patrick’s, feeling Patrick’s pulse, his warmth, how much the stag trusts him – right here, right now, Pete realizes something so simple, yet profound.

“Hey, deer boy,” Pete whispers, “There’s something important I have to tell you.”

 

Patrick makes a vague groan to signify he’s tired, but listening.

 

“I love you.”

 

Patrick gasps, tenses in his arms upon these words. “Pete -?”

 

“You don’t need to say anything,” Pete mumbles as he buries his nose in Patrick’s neck, “I just wanted you to know.”

 

After taking a deep breath, Patrick cuddles even closer to him, and even though he can’t see it (and Patrick wouldn’t admit it), Pete knows Patrick is blushing. Pete keeps his face pressed against Patrick’s neck, comforted by the familiar warmth and smell, and delighted by having his deer boy in his arms. The tap tap tap of his tail hitting the mattress and the sound of Patrick’s heartbeat are the perfect background noise to fall asleep to.

  
  


“What’s up, everyone? We’re Fall Out Boy, and I’m having the fucking time of my life with you guys!” Pete’s words cause the crowd to scream even louder, and maybe it’s their enthusiasm, maybe it’s Gabe next to him, hugging him tightly, maybe it’s Patrick waiting for him backstage, or maybe they really delivered their best performance so far – Pete doesn’t know. Pete doesn’t care. All that matters is that he feels ecstatic.

They’re halfway through Saturday, and Pete doesn’t know how life can get any better. He’s bursting with energy, and their fans are bursting with excitement, and with a small nod from Gabe, Pete discards his bass for one last round of stage diving.

Pure happiness and adrenaline keep Pete’s heart beating. There are loud voices and a guitar solo from Joe, there are hands all over his body, pushing and pulling and dragging at him, and then, there’s bright-white pain shooting up from Pete’s tail to his lower back through his whole body. Pete opens his mouth to scream, but it’s lost among the noise.

The excruciating pain is the last thing Pete remembers before falling unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, you just expected pure joy and happiness? Well...   
> Don't worry, just remind yourself that the tags still say "Happy Ending". We're just not there yet...
> 
> But hey, if you scroll up, you'll notice that in the artwork, deertrick is wearing the little paw pin! Isn't that cute? Maybe not cute neough to make up for this cliffhanger, but, well... 
> 
> See you next time, my lovely readers!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Why not leave a little comment to tell me how you liked it? I would be delighted! <3
> 
> See you all next chapter with more grumpy deetrick, and more art!~


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